Freedom
by Dark Raven Wrote
Summary: Previously 'I Hope You Dance,' the tale of Draco Malfoy, a ballroom dancer on the second floor and Harry Potter, a street dancer on the first floor. Their worlds collide but through all their differences, they both search for the same thing: Freedom. DMHP
1. Chapter 1

**I Hope You Dance**

The idea is somehow based on this philosophy: A Life Filled With Love Has Many Thorns But A Life Without Love Has No Roses. (If anyone knows where I would have read this please tell me)

Summary: Draco Malfoy is a ballroom dancer on the second floor. Harry Potter is a street dancer on the first floor. Their worlds collide and a bitter rivalry resurfaces. Can the harsh realities of the outside world crashing around them overcome their petty hatred and show them that different worlds can be beautiful too?

A/N: My new WiP which I probably shouldn't be starting but felt I needed to do while the inspiration and mood took me, I actually like this one as well. So please review as well, I'm not sure about the response I'm going to get for it and I want to know if it's worth continuing.

Warnings: abuse, language, future slash, violence…more may be added later.

Rating: M

Word: 2899

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters only the situation. This disclaimer will not be repeated.

* * *

_**Chapter 1**_

The central staircase of Pure Air Dance Centre was a bland, whitewashed tower of cement and steel, icy cold and sharp much like its owner. The disease that was graffiti had not spread across there walls as it had the rest of the town, quite possibly because the miscreants responsible were too scared of being caught.

The ground floor was a simple space occupied by an oversized reception desk that never had a receptionist and a small café in the corner called Silver Wing. This café had lived seen many things whilst in business in the building, from the rise of legendary dancers to the injuries that would go down in history to the pure joy that came with the movement that was dance.

The first floor was an unexpected explosion of colour. The current tenants were constantly being threatened by the owner but never-the-less the little, personal rebellion continued with a bombardment of clashing rainbows. The present tenants had decorated the spacious room a flushed crimson scattered with golden crystals. The white dance floor was always polished and the floor to ceiling mirrors were always gleaming.

In one corner a hoard of bloated pillows and bouncing mattresses were harboured and in another a small fridge that was constantly stocked, sat next to the central sound system, which was adequate enough to pump loud base through the surround sound speakers, making the entire building vibrate.

This first floor was rented by a small group of what the owner labelled 'miscreants' and were not at all liked but, much to said owners displeasure, as long as they paid the required rent on time and did not cause trouble there was no reason for them to be chucked out and said owner would not put it past them to sue him momentarily.

The next floor up was used by the owner's son himself, along with his well respected friends. Unlike the scoundrels on the floor below, these teenagers did not spend their time rolling on the floor. They practised the graceful art of ballroom dancing. The whole building had once been dedicated to this practise but, with the changing community, it became clear that the income would be too low if things carried on as such, and so, now only the second floor was devoted to the specific dance style.

The room itself, open plan as with the floor below, was a majestic green, the arches of the ceiling a shining silver entwined with a waterfall of black basalt. The ashen chandelier was an almost clear silver that swept down filling the room with a heavenly light through the dark hours when the floor to ceiling window that ran along the western wall was not lit by the sun. The floor was a polished marble, which resulted in the steady tap of shoes keeping a firm beat as the occupants danced. With the exception of the emerald door, the other three walls were covered in the reflective mirrors that helped the result of perfection along the way.

The building held many secrets besides its unexpectedly grand interior. It was a place where a person could escape from the expectations that were hefted on their shoulders from a young age. It was a place the judgements of society did not reach and a person could be completely oneself. It was a place where the poverty of the outside world did not reach its darkened arms. It was a place for the outcasts, the lost, the poor and the abused.

* * *

Harry Potter landed on the cold floor hard. If he had had more energy he would have winced. When he arrived home from his part time job at the library, he had not expected his Uncle to be so mad. From the smell of his breath he could tell it was probably the alcohol controlling his actions and not his mind. Events such as these happened often and Harry had grown used to them. Once his Uncle had finished with him, he usually stumbled over to the dance centre to nurse himself back to relative health amongst the welcoming comfort of the ocean of cushions, calmed by the graceless flushes of orchestral strings from the floor above and the setting sun embracing the room around him.

A sharp snap to his right alerted Harry of his current situation, shattering any illusions of escape and snatching him back to the harsh present. He just had time to grasp a soft material with his flailing fingers before unforgiving leather cracked down onto his skin. He doubted anyone knew as well as he did just how thin the material of a shirt was, or how painful such a mundane object of leather and cool metal could be.

His next hours were spent huddled in a corner, attempting to make his fragile body as small as was humanly possible. His Uncle was as ruthless as ever, perhaps even more so due to the stench of Whiskey that was rolling off his voluminous body. After finding his trousers were having trouble remaining around his waist without the help of the black leather, he rethreaded it and degraded himself to using the brute force of his fists and feet against his poor, innocent victim. It was at this time that, despite the raging voice climaxing in an inferno of insults, his eyes began to droop. A fat man can have only so much energy before his burdened body begins to protest. This was that time and soon after, with a final satisfying kick to his nephew's gut, he collapsed in a heap on the ugly, puce coloured sofa in the living room.

Harry, despite the back breaking, gut wrenching pain it brought him, wasted not a moment as he scrambled towards the door and threw himself out into the street, afraid his Uncle might decide he was not quite ready to enter his land of dreams yet and return. With these thoughts, Harry began his battle of resilience against his body and started along the pavement. Every hesitant step jarred his already bruising back. He clenched his fist determinedly, he had been through worse than this, he would manage.

The cement tower was the same as always when he reached it; unforgiving and unwelcoming but to Harry it looked like the gateway to a hidden paradise, and in a sense it was. One more flight of stairs and he could give himself in to the peace his body craved and screamed for, that blackness that brought with it healing and tranquillity. The doors swung open easily in front of him, and within the stairway he clutched at the handrail as if it were a lifeline. Each lift felt like a mile high, his foot heavy at the end of his weakening limbs. Several times he needed to pause to catch his breath and he gulped loudly at the sound of his own rasping gasps as they echoed deafeningly, surrounding him, tormenting him. He continued on his journey, resolutely ignoring them.

He struggled with the broad doors to the first floor studio but admitted to himself, as he shuffled through, that never in his experience of coming to this shelter had he been more grateful that no one was practising that evening. Moments later, he sank into the welcoming embrace of the feathered materials on the other side of the room. Despite the many times this had happened, he had never been more thankful they had raised funds for this little corner, each chipping in a quarter of their wages each month until they were satisfied, 'money well spent,' he thought as he drifted off into the swirling black depths, which would soon burst with colour as dreams filling his sleeping vision and he would be dancing again.

* * *

Draco Malfoy had been raised to acknowledge any partners he took in life, be they partners of business, dance, friendship or romance. He had been taught that if one was to reap every possible benefit from a partnership, one needed to find said partners soft, weaker points and use them to his advantage as well as accepting any offered comforts freely. His Godfather had once used a silly allegory of a peach that he was always reminded of when his thoughts travelled down this route. A peach's soft skin was juicy and weak, much nutrition could be stolen from it without confrontation or force but underneath this exterior is a hard stone that, although not edible, was often a useful ingredient in many medical cures. Everyone had hidden secrets below the surface of their skin, if one could find these secrets they could use them, no matter how worthless they appeared at first glance, to one's own advantage.

It was with this belief that Draco Malfoy went about all his relationships, analysing and questioning everything the other person acted upon or spoke of, attempting to find their hidden stones. In fact, he ad been doing it for so long that he often forgot he was even doing it. The process became a subconscious thing, a second nature, something of which he - and his father - were exceedingly proud.

His current dance partner was a pug nosed girl with whom he had been tentative friends for several years by the name of Pansy Parkinson. Her father was a governor within the county, as was his own father, and to increase interfamily support his father had instructed him to befriend her, well, his exact words had been something more along the lines of, 'Keep her restrained, Draco, she will not run rampant and ruin my plans for the partnership of our families' but with the help of his godfather, Draco had translated that to mean, 'keep an eye on her by pretending to be her trusted acquaintance.' As it turned out, she was actually a relatively pleasant girl. Although there was nothing genuine about her character at all, Draco would never have expected less from one born to a house high in society. They became companions quickly, enjoying the refreshing and intelligent banter they often engaged in or the quiet while they went about their studies. They would never trust each other nor would they ever become true friends, but society demanded they put up a united front, as did their fathers. They formed a tentative friendship over the three years they had known each other and both knew the relationship would never form further bonds but were content to leave it as it was.

The sun was just beginning to set when they paused for breath, shedding golden and rose rays across the room from the distant horizon through the window. It was in this light that Draco flicked a strand of ashen, sweat soaked hair from his eyes and shed his waistcoat, undoing the small buttons at his cuffs and rolling the sleeves of his fitted shirt to his elbows. Across the glowing room, he caught sight of Pansy stretching and massaging her sour feet through her light, heeled shoes. It would never cease to amaze him how she managed to avoid blisters and other such blemishes.

A huff came from his right and he glanced to the side, noticing Daphne Greengrass for the first time. He had thought she had left some time ago with Blaise. The Zabini was Draco's one true friend and one of the select few that he trusted, certainly the only one in their own age group. They had grown up together from the tender age of three. It had started when Blaise had stolen the last swing in the park, which of course Draco also wanted. The partially Italian blooded boy had looked at him with dark eyes and offered him the swing but in return he wanted to play with the dinosaur the pale boy was carrying. They had ended up playing together, entangled on the swing, half fighting, half re-enacting the demise of the noble beasts. From that moment they spent mostly every day in each other's company. Fifteen years later and they were still the best of friends, wrapped in their own little bubble, truly understanding each other to the fullest and sharing every secret. If people of partnerships were peaches, Draco had once told his godfather whilst attempting to explain the dynamics of their relationship, then Blaise was a translucent grape to him just as he was to Blaise. His godfather had scowled and turned back to his healing remedies, no less perplexed over the odd relationship than when the conversation began.

Daphne Greengrass, for her part, was a fine dancer and a diplomat of only slightly above average intelligence. Draco had only known her for a short time but they communicated well, meaning she seemed to take the hint from him that if she stayed out from under his feet he would leave her be. She was Blaise's dance partner and, although displeased to begin with, they had grown to understand each other even if only a little. They did not communicate socially whilst practising let alone outside of the studio, but despite their lack of knowledge and comradeship where the other was concerned they had the grace of swans together on the dance floor. A near perfect partnership if ever there was one.

Draco himself was, like Blaise, an excellent dancer, and Pansy could not be faulted, but their own partnership lacked something. Draco could never put his finger on what it was, perhaps the lack of passion or the transience of the emotions that were needed, either way, their partnership on the dance floor, although technically perfect, was left wanting.

Daphne huffed again, shuffling on the emerald armchair on which she was currently sitting. It occurred to Draco suddenly that Blaise had never said farewell.

"Where did Blaise disappear to?"

"Zabini has decided that the urinals are more interesting than my company apparently. He deserted our practise almost an hour ago and has not returned. Was he never taught that it's rude to keep a lady waiting?" She continued to speak in this way as Draco turned from her abruptly and made his way to an unobtrusive, grey door in one corner of the room. Inside the small waiting room, which was barely big enough to fit three people, Draco opened the door to the right as opposed to the one opposite and stepped into the male toilets. His eyes widened comically at the sight that met him.

Blaise Zabini was squatting atop a toilet on one foot, while the other was smashed through the paper thin wall of the stall and dangling dangerously above the gaping mouth of the bowl. His hands were preoccupied, one holding a flimsy looking pipe while the other was repeatedly flapping weakly at the tank of the loo as if loosely protesting that, no, it should not be spraying water into his face. His dark features were scrunched against the onslaught of water and his mouth hung open as if in a silent snarl and a promise of revenge.

Draco did not know what made him do it and if anyone asked he would only be able to call it pure good luck and a strange intuition in the pit of his stomach, but he followed some unspoken instinct and back out of the room, propping the door closed as he went. It was as he was gently shutting the outer door into the main studio and turning to answer the immediate question from Pansy that they heard the loud clank. Draco gulped and stepped from the door as an angry bellow echoed from the bathroom and metal scraped against metal. One moment they were listening to the shrewd curses of their fellow dancer and the next they were hastily retreating as water flooded under the closed door, swamping the expensive floor and sloshing up against the walls. When the door banged open, slamming against the wall on its hinges, a very angry, very wet Blaise Zabini stood framed in the doorway scowling darkly at them, daring them to say a word.

"The fucking pipe broke," was all the explanation he gave before he strode to the emerald door, his head held high and ignoring the embarrassing squelching beneath his feet that made his ears heat up beneath his black locks. Once he had disappeared from view, the three remaining occupants stared after him until Daphne Greengrass grew bored and grabbed her bag, turning to leave. Pansy mirrored her actions, pausing at the door to look back at her partner.

"I reckoned it was time we redecorated anyway," she said, a small smile lighting her face and a giggle escaping from between her thin lips. When the room was finally silent again except the low trickle of water from the pipe in the bathroom, Draco picked up his own possessions and made for the door, stopping from a moment to let lose a loud, hearty guffaw before disappearing from view.

* * *

R&R please and thank you.

Dark Raven 4426


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: okay so this isnt the best chapter and i was going to make it longer but im trying to update all my stroies this (long) weekend so i decided to finish it there. Enjoy and R&R if you can please, i try to answer back to all of them as well.

All other information, including warnings and a disclaimer.

Word: 2690

_**Chapter 2**_

When he next woke, Harry found himself in the dark. His limbs were entangled in the scattered pillows that surrounded him, his face buried in one of the fluffier ones. He guessed he had been shifting violently in his sleep from the thumping of in his head and the swollen lumps over his body. Perhaps, he thought, it was his dancing, the way he recklessly threw himself to the floor, executing some dangerous gymnastic as he did so, which he knew Hermione was likely to reprimand for when she found out. This is what he thought until, that is, he remembered the night before. The long night that followed a seemingly endless chain of long nights. He remembered the strained journey to the sanctuary. The memories hit him like rocks from the damned and he reacted as he did whenever such a thing happened, he blocked them, hurling them to the deepest recesses of his mind, never to flash forward again unless some comment triggered them.

The time was nine o'clock, he saw when his eyes finally managed to adjust against the blinding light of the early morning sun. It was a Saturday, unless he had had the ill luck to have slept through the entire day, although he doubted there would have been no one turn up the entire day for practise. Speaking of which, people usually started turning up around this time.

With a growl, Harry dragged himself from his comfortable heaven and slumped across the room, resolutely ignoring the flares of stabbing pain that echoes through his body and flooded his skin like volcanoes spitting lava. The men's bathroom was empty and pristine, which was what came from Hermione insisting that even if they did not allow her to step foot in their one refuge they were still to keep it clean. His face looked blotched to say the least, prickly and speckled with dark patches but relatively unharmed. His fingers found the cold metal of the taps and twiddled with them. Soon, cold water was running down his face and he felt less like he had just woken from his grave.

It took more effort than he was willing to admit for him to shuffle back to the studio room and come to rest, perhaps collapse would be more of a suitable word, before the mirrors in a heap on the floor, shivering slightly from the cold wetness of his clothes. His breath fogged over the mirrors slightly and he found a fascination in watching the vapour disintegrate for a few moments before he pushed it away and turned to the reason he had settled into this particular place. The baggy, threadbare T-shirt he had inherited from his whale of a cousin revealed far too much bluish tinted flesh for his liking, dipping well into his chest at the front and then seeming to want to compensate by hanging to his elbows in the sleeve.

The sound of arguing outside brought him out of his short stint of thoughts and he stood up, stubbornly ignoring any flares of fire. The door banged open sharply and Harry half expected it to drop off its hinges but he could not help the small smile that fell on his lips at his best friends' tempers, some things never changed.

The red-head stormed into the room, his face flushed and his ears blazing with a murderous maroon colour. He staggered slightly when he spotted his friend, flashing a wolfish grin at him before continuing on his journey straight towards the bathroom. A frazzled looking brunette marched into the room behind him, he chocolate eyes searing ferociously into his back. The toilet door slammed shut behind the gangly boy, hard.

"Oh yes, Ron, that's very mature!" Hermione Granger shrieked after the boy whose relationship status Harry was currently unsure of. "You can't hide from me forever, I'll just be waiting out here when you're ready to grow the _hell _up!" Her rant over, she then resumed her journey to the sitting area to sulk, snatching a fresh carton of apple juice from the fridge as she passed.

Harry wanted to say something to his friend but before he could even stutter in her direction, she flicked a switch on the sound system in the corner venomously and loud beats began pounding through the room boisterously enough that he swore his very skin was vibrating, creating an unpleasant itching sensation over his bruises, reminding him of their presence.

"Right then, I'll just…er…go talk to…erm…Ron then, shall I?" He doubted she heard him over the music, he was admittedly quite soft spoken most of the time when around his friends and he had not attempted to really catch her attention, it was more just a device so as he would not feel guilty later should this plan backfire completely.

When he reached the bathroom, he found Ron striding doggedly from the urinals to the sinks and back repetitively. He stood leaning against the door, a relatively comfy position he had just discovered by accident. In a way, he was pleased he had been blessed with this drama, it pumped adrenalin into his veins and made him forget about his own selfish needs and discomforts. He stood for ten minutes, not really sure if he had even been noticed before Ron began muttering angrily to himself quietly so he could only just hear every few words.

"…can't believe she would…diabolical agreement…be the death of me…disastrous ending…" He trailed off as he seemed to notice Harry for the first time. He grinned again, pausing in his pacing to wave idiotically at him before resuming, chewing irritatingly on his little finger as he did so.

"Were you going to tell me what was going on?" Harry questioned as he shifted his position slightly after noticing that he was sliding dangerously close to one of the marks on his ribs. His friend paused again, seeming to consider the question before huffing and throwing himself down on one of the loos and placing his elbows roughly on his knees. Harry almost sympathised with his friend, he looked so pitiful flopped on the toilet seat, his arms hanging down between his knees and his head bowed, auburn hair curling around his face.

"Sure, mate, sure. It's just, well, you see the thing is, Hermione's being all difficult about…something, and it's getting me all uptight…but it's really not my fault. Thing is she won't shut up about…something else and it's driving me nuts." Ron scowled down at his feet. That was what gave him away and Harry's tinged features suddenly lit up with a beaming smile.

"You're jealous."

"Don't be ridiculous. He can't be all that gre…" He puffed at his fringe in annoyance. "How did you know?" He asked Harry as the black haired boy ventured further into the bathroom and rested against a vacant, tiled wall.

"How long have we been friends now, Ron?"

"Yeah, 'spose you're right."

"Well?" Harry cocked an eyebrow, motioning with a hand for his friend to continue in a more fluent way.

"Apparently the kids upstairs, you know the rich ones that are always playing their posh music, yeah them, had a little accident and one of their bogs flooded the entire place. Plumber said he was surprised we didn't get any leakage. Anyway, Hermione says one of these kids is big in society, Malfoy's his name and he's a whiney little snot who always gets everything his way so obviously he wants some other place to practise and, guess what, the prat's got some kind of influence with the owner, blackmail if you ask me, and…"

"Malfoy? Ron, didn't you pay attention when 'Mione explained this to us. The Malfoy that uses the upstairs studio is the son of the owner."

"Oh, really?! Never knew that. Still a whinging snob of a ferret though. Anyways, so now we've got to share this place for a couple of months."

"And that would make you and 'Mione fight because…?"

"She won't bloody shut up about him. How he's perfect prince charming and his hair is _soooo_ soft and flaxen and he's this and that and sometimes I just want to strangle her. She's making me pull my hair out, literally. You know I swear I saw a bald patch hiding under there this morning." Ron's face, if possible, reddened even further during his rampage.

"You do realise that if your bald spot has hair it's not really a bald spot, right?" Ron's flushed face shot up with a glare and his lips were pursed so tightly Harry thought they were in danger of being swallowed.

"You're not really helping, Harry."

"Well what did you want me to do then? You're not really explaining very well." The red-heads heated face fell once more, caught in his freckled fingers, which immediately began to tug at the nearest strands of hair on contact.

"Look, Harry, I realise I'm not really dealing with this very well, it's just, me and Malfoy, we go back and we've never really…"

"Harry!" Hermione's voice penetrated through the walls, "You're mobile's ringing." Harry smirked slightly with the new knowledge that at least Hermione's sulk must have abated for her to come and find him.

"I'll be back in a bit, Ron," and with that said he strode from the male bathroom with a purposeful gait.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was not happy with the current turn of events. In fact, this was a grave understatement, he was down right furious. He could handle sharing the grossly ugly decorated studio with the frizzy haired annoyance he had talked to on the phone and then met this morning. He was also sure he could handle having the other petty irritations that would be in his presence - Granger had assured him none of them were intrusive or bothersome. But then she had mentioned the puffed up Weasel, which was something he could not handle.

Once upon a time, they had been friends, when they were young as they were the same age and their families had, at one point, been of a similar social standing. Then the father of the Weasel brood had made a single idiotic mistake that had lost the family their status. Draco remembered the argument he had walked in on when he was about five, in which his ever reasonable father had been trying to convince the balding flame haired man that he really should buy into these stocks as, after they began to trade and sell, they would revolutionise their world. But the insufferable Weasel had started to argue with morals and ethics, which even Draco knew at his tender age was not the correct way to conduct a business. So what if some of Riddle's stock was illegal, so what if the consumers purchasing it were begin ripped off, that was just how business and society functioned.

So the Weasel's lost everything in that little grapple that did indeed revolutionise society. Draco imagined they had moved to some dirty little hole on the edge of town, living off their home grown vegetables and eggs. About a year after the change, of which he and 'ickle Wonnie-kins' had spent arguing, their family left, and not on good terms with anyone else he might add, to go and curl up, never to be heard from again.

And so, as you can imagine, Draco was not pleased with the new arrangement Granger had offered him, but what other choice did he have? She had mentioned other names as well, but he only recognised one other name - Plotter, was it? - and he was not even sure where that was from and his father had shrugged him off when he had asked.

A group of them stood outside the obesly bright, maroon doors, listening to the sound of a pacing footsteps and silence. The only sound on their side of the door was the scattering of huffs and sighs and an inconsistent shuffle of feet every-so-often combined with the ringing silence that comes after thumping music has been turned off. Suddenly, the sound of a mobile phone squelched the tension that had taken hold of the situation. The sound was a sharp, harsh call that rang out for several seconds before a girl's voice yelped, although muffled through the opaque wood of the door, a name that none of them could make out completely.

"Oh for God's sake!" Pansy snapped, slapping the doors open in a very masculine manner and marching through. A girl - Granger with her frizzy hair - stood beside an unobtrusive door to the right, holding up a small plastic device and cupping her rounded chin with the other hand. Draco snarled at her ignoring them and strode past his partner towards her.

"Miss Granger, so _nice _to see you again," he murmured silkily as he approached her only to stop short when she halted him with a hand. His lip curled in disgust and he grunted in indignation.

"Harry!" She yelled again, making every new comer jump. The bathroom doors banged open and a short boy with the messiest black hair Draco had ever seen stormed out, his full lips pursed in rage. He snatched the phone from her, whispering something that sounded like 'Well done, 'Mione' sarcastically and collapsed on the cushions in the corner, not giving their guests a single glance - how rude!

"Now see here, Granger, I'll inform you know that…"

"BOY!!" The echoes from the mechanic voice resounded around the room. Draco swivelled on his feet to snarl at where the noise had come from only to find the small boy topple over onto the padded surface beneath him, whipping the phone from his sensitive, young ears. "WHERE ARE YOU? THERE ARE CHORES TO BE DONE AND I WON'T HAVE MY POOR PETUNIA GETTING DUST POISONING!" The line went dead.

A gangly, read-head appeared out of the bathroom, seemingly ignoring the newcomers, and moved to stand next to Granger. Draco hissed like a strangled cat at the obvious dismissal again, but still remained unnoticed.

"Mate, you're not going back, right? I mean…" The Weasel mumbled towards his shaggy haired 'mate,' who swiftly whirled around to face him, fire glazing his eyes with ignited anger.

"What choice do I have, Ron? Stay here?" His fingers curled into tight, determined fists and his voice came out at a harsh whisper that echoed eerily around the sunlit room. Granger stepped forward between the two boys and looked up.

"Harry, you think I didn't notice this morning? It happened again and you are not going back there. End of discussion." She nodded her head in a decisive way as if her simple words would put the whole word to rights.

"I have to, 'Mione. I'll be fine."

"It'll just happen again."

"And what about when I go back tonight?"

"I…well…Harry, I just…" She was halted in her stuttering as Weasel lunged forward and grabbed his best friend's arm tightly. The boy cried out. Everything went still as the last of his scream echoed ominously around the mirrored room. The idiot stepped back, releasing his friend.

"Look, it's nothing!" The little kid grunted, his voice low, determined and passionate. "I just fell awkwardly when I was dancing this morning." He did not look up at any of the occupants of the room. Draco scowled, fed up with the unnecessary melodrama.

"Don't lie to me, Harry." Draco shifted his eyes to the Weasel, stunned by the malevolent hiss that escaped from his supposedly angelic character. He glanced through his lashes back at the tramp-midget. He was staring at the scarlet haired dinosaur with eyes slit thin as a snake's barbed tongue, as if he would lash out him maliciously at any time.

"What the _fuck_ do you know, Ron?" His voice was a low growl. "Nothing! You don't have a _fucking clue!" _

He ran, elbowing past Draco and his troop. The door slammed shut violently in his wake. The only sound that followed was Weasely's fervent curse and Granger's loud gulp.

* * *

So what you think, R&R please

Dark Raven 4426


	3. Chapter 3

Right, sorry it's been so long. Okay, this is un-betaed and i wrote it last night when inspiration hit at three-four o'clock so i hope it makes sense. As you can see im setting up a fantastic event and an impending meeting. Have fun reading and i'm expecting reviews. Lol. Bye guys.

Oh and for those of you who wanted to know, i now have two new chapters written for my old story **Always and Forever**, although i don't really like it anymore because it's not mature enough for me now, i will continue to write short simplistic chapters for it. So here we go.

* * *

**I Hope You Dance : Chapter 3**

Following the completely overdramatic 'episode' of the Neanderthals that they would soon be sharing a dance studio with, Draco's mobile had started to ring rather obtrusively into the tense silence, effectively breaking the curse the scruff-ball had left behind him. His group had an hour to wait before they could force the trash to depart, so he flippantly gestured for the rest of the troop to get lost and stepped back into the stairwell to answer to damned machine. It turned out it was his father. His very unhappy father. His very unhappy father who had just gotten wind of his dropping grades, newfound and unavoidable association with Weasels and actual friendship with one Miss Parkinson. This was not shaping up to be a good day.

He absently listened to his father droning on about what benefits such things could have, the practicalities he should be thinking about due to his lifestyle and how some diseases could not be brushed off with a simple flu shot. He much preferred to watch with a half peeked interest as to where his dance group would go with this free time than listen to the old man prattle on.

Greengrass strode overconfidently out first, her hips swinging like there was no tomorrow, with Blaise following in her wake like a love sick puppy. Draco had warned him that no good would come from this infatuation but had, as usual when it came to Blaise, been ignored. How Greengrass managed to ignore his blatant show of emotion was beyond him but then someone as dense as her when it came to sensitivities such as this should be given a little longer before one began to snarl down one's nose at her with disdain, Draco supposed. Next out the door were Nott and Bulstrode, who headed up towards their old studio, apparently on their way to inspect the damage being repaired because their curiosity had gotten the better of them. What, did they think he was an idiot, it was painfully obvious they were climbing the extra flight of stairs so they could spend their free hour making out. And Draco was happy for them, really he was, who else would be desperate enough to accept them anyway, it was better for everyone this way and at least they were discrete. Crabbe and Goyle wafted out like precariously heavy bad smells after about ten minutes of probably the most boring dance show in the history of dance. For Draco there was no need to waste his time watching where they were heading. The Café. Obvious choice for two oversized pigs. Pansy trotted out delicately last, wincing as a particularly loud shout came from the device in Draco's idle hand, and offered his a small smile before skipping down the stairs after Crabbe and Goyle. Draco often wondered where she disappeared to whenever they had a break but, as it was none of his business, he never bothered to ask.

His attention was brought back to his phone when his father snapped a particularly vicious comment down the line concerning Pansy and he almost retorted back reflexively, just managing to catch himself; who knew what punishment his father would impose on him if he were to do such a thing. God forbid he turn into a _normal,_ rebellious teenager, of course. No, if Draco Malfoy wanted to be a rebellious teenager he had to go about it in the true Malfoy style; using cunning, wit and all the underhanded techniques he could muster. Though, said points actually counted for most things in life, not just hormonal revolting against his father's firm hand.

As it turned out, his father did actually have another reason for calling him. He had arranged for Draco to accompany him to dinner at a prestigious restaurant that night to meet a multitude of his business partners, one of whom was apparently the mother of one of his possible brides-to-be. It was at these words that Draco wanted to whine for all the world to hear. Where was Blaise when you needed him? For years now he had been unloading his troubles on the dark boy, receiving the same treatment in return, but it was oddly comforting to know that there were people around you in trouble and hiding it as well. Comforting in that it reassured him that he was not alone in this world of the rich and soon-to-be famous.

Once his father was done with berating him, he slammed the phone down, probably with quite a bit of malice, and Draco was left to go in search of his friend. After an impatience, aggravating five minutes of searching, he found Blaise sitting with Pansy on a bench outside the centre, of all things, people watching.

"He's just lost his job." He heard Pansy mutter as a tall man in a long trench coat, decidedly bitter scowl and posture like a Giraffe to match shuffled by, fighting against a sudden wind that picked up. Draco sank into the last remaining seat beside the two and smiled softly at the familiarity of the nod Blaise gave her in reply. The man glared at them as if it were their fault they did not have a care in this harsh world and then disappeared down a half hidden side alley.

"What did he want?" Blaise questioned, leaning back so that Draco could see past him to look at Pansy and gauge her reaction as well.

"The usual. Pestered me about Pansy for a bit. He's found out my grades are dropping at school too. And he's not too pleased with the close distancing with Weasel either." He shrugged nonchalantly, or what he hoped was nonchalantly. Then he cursed when Pansy scowled at him, annoyed and Blaise spoke through his disbelieving look.

"And?"

"And what?"

"You wouldn't come and find us if that was all, Draco." It was a times like these that Draco regretted having people close enough to him to see through any disguises he might try to throw up. He shrugged noncommittally, watching them slyly from the corner of his eye. Pansy had raised an eyebrow, which really was far too thin, and Blaise looked like he was about to yowl in frustration.

"Fine, fine. I'm meeting …someone tonight." He shrugged again. "Another parent. Another hopeful." Immediately, he was secretly glad to see, their faces turned from hard to sympathising and gentle, offering a kind of comfort that would not have been obvious to anyone looking in on the conversation from the outside world.

"Oh Draco," Pansy positively squealed in protest at his situation. "I'm so sorry. I'm sure you'll do fine though. Just have fun throwing her off." Draco looked back at her doubtfully.

"Lucius might notice. He's starting to get suspicious that none of his meetings are going as planned. It doesn't matter if I'm cunning, sly or underhanded, I'm always like that. He'll figure it out soon. He's not stupid."

"Well then," Blaise murmured, his grin wicked as it curled up his lips, revealing perfect teeth, "You'll just have to be double as cunning, treble as sly and quadruple as underhanded. We're here to help, Draco."

When the three of them arrived back up at the studio on the second floor, it was to find two figures panting and gasping, sprawled out on the ground. Granger's hair was thrown up in haphazard bun and Weasel's was plastered to his head. They were concentrating so completely on attempting to get their breathing under control that they did not even see the three new comers slipping in to settle amongst the ocean of pillows at the other end of the room.

"One more time, Ron." Frazzle-hair burst out suddenly from between laboured gulps of air that probably burned her lungs like hell-fire.

"Why!? That was almost perfect!" The Weasel whined back.

"Because 'almost perfect' isn't going to convince Harry that this is a good enough choreography for his to work with."

"Awwww, Hermioneeeee. Why can't we just get Seamus to do it, you know he'll do it whatever."

"Because, Ronald," her patience seemed to snap before their eyes and Draco could have clapped to her for holding onto it for so long. She sat up determinedly, her eyes blazing with loyalty and new found energy. "Harry is the best and Harry is our friend. He needs something to keep him occupied and we need a good routine. Now. On your feet!" She ordered and Draco had to hand it to her, she had guts and a good authority. He then proceeded to watch what should have ended in deadly accidents and definitely would never be approved of by his father turn into a warped but mystical version of dance. He was gob smacked, mentally of course, he could never let his mouth hang open like Blaise was doing or his eyes pop out like Pansy but he would do a combination in his mind's eye. And this was to be improved?

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Harry ignored the rude and intrusive stares. He ignored the curious glances and the children pointing. He ignored the wind picking up and throwing leaves at him and when the dustbin men trundled around emptying the bins around the park, he ignored them too. He liked to do this; just sit there and pretend he didn't exist in this world or any other. However, what he could not ignore was when a short, podgy little Terrier came up to him and attempted to piss on him. The little bugger would have succeeded as well, were it not for his lightning reflexes. He glared his best ferocious glare at the well dressed woman in her early twenties who came and scooped the dog up from the ground at his feet. It was a good thing she did to, because he had been sorely tempted to squash the git under his sticky, gum covered trainer.

Harry often visited this park when he needed to cool off. It was on the way back to the Dursley's house as well. Therefore, there was no need to ignore it as it would not hinder him on his way to his final destination. It was an empty place, the odd tree was littered around, sometimes with a strategically placed litter bin underneath so that people could see it from as few a directions as humanly possibly. The pathways were narrow and made of simple paving slabs. The only people that really came here nowadays were the people searching for that rare glimpse of solitude or escape from the daily hustle that had become their life. No children, no large crowds, just the occasional dog walker or lonely business man on his break. Harry liked it here for all these reasons and more.

Long ago, on the far side of the park, near the closed off fairground, there used to be a small children's playground. It was never very large and not many people knew it existed when it was there, let alone now that it had been completely demolished. Originally it had been taken down to make room for a new shopping centre but then rumours had started about the fairground, also prepared to be town down, being haunted. The rumours had turned out to be founded. Now, no construction company would go near the place. So while the park was gone, Harry still visited sometimes. He found it peaceful there. It was a place he felt he could be nearer his parents. Not only did he have many happy memories of the place, but also he felt a physical connection with them there more than anywhere else. He would have risked the ghosts next door any day to feel that.

His phone vibrated, again, in his pocket; Harry predicted it was another angry text message from his Uncle spewing angry words in block capitals for him to hurry up and get his scrawny arse home before he had to send 'Duddy-kins' out to find him, which was never a pleasant thing. With the memory of being chased home by a boy barking at him like a bulldog and almost rolling over himself due to his fat, Harry began the short trek back to the Dursley household.

An hour later found Harry gardening in the spitting rain. His Uncle, Aunt and cousin would be going out to some fancy restaurant this evening and, because they couldn't find a babysitter they would have to take him with them so they could be sure he wasn't snatching the biscuits from the cupboard - which, incidentally, he couldn't actually reach. This resulted in the task of completing the weeding in the unfairly large back garden before eight o'clock, at which time, Petunia would snag him by the ear and drag him up to the bathroom. She would then proceed to dress him, once she was sure he clean from head to toe, until she was satisfied he could pass for a servant boy. Then, if she wasn't distracted by her precious son ringing his bedside bell to be doted upon, which Harry actually prayed for at times like this, she would take the comb to his head. This event never ended well for Harry. His hair was not a tamable mass of curls, no, it was a mess that would always remain a mess. Even soaking wet it managed to defy gravity. So, this experience always proved to be painful, and Petunia seemed to making her mission in life to make each session more painful than the last. Harry 's scalp would be sensitive after her onslaught but he could rest in peace for one more night knowing she wouldn't be coming after him for another month at least.

Harry didn't really like going out with his family, especially to these post, expensive places where he didn't feel like he fitted in in the first place, let alone dressed like a slum boy and ordering nothing but water for the entirety of the night. Petunia's birthday celebration was always the worse. He was ignored more than ever because she always chose the highest class, five star establishments she could five. Vernon was happy with a Sunday lunch meal at a pub. Dudley could be satisfied with a trip to the zoo or an adventure park, as his mental age was still that of a small child. And needless to say, Harry got nothing. But Petunia, well, she always like to show off.

It was with these thoughts swirling about dizzyingly quickly in his head that Harry started ferociously ripping weeds from the final flowerbed of the garden and dreading the next tolling of their neighbours grandfather clock, which his young ears could hear from down the street.

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Hope you enjoyed, feel free to review - pretty please.

I've already slapped my wrist for taking so long.

Yours

Dark Raven 4426


	4. Chapter 4

A/N right, here's the next chapter. It was going to be longer but i wanted to give the next part, you'll understand when you read the end, its own chapter. So here you go, chapter 4. Enjoy and please review.

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**I Hope You Dance**

**Chapter 4**

The restaurant was an underwater Greek palace with green plumage swirling down ornate ancient pillars at the entrance and then wrapped around the statues that lined the ocean blue carpet under the deep cerulean canopy. It was an upper-class establishment that ranged over two floors. Bay dormer windows with polished white frames that shone as if they were cleaned ever hour gave clear views into the ground floor, revealing glistening tables and chattering people enjoying bubbling champagne and portions far too small to be filling, and second floor, showing sparkling crystals dangling tantalizingly from golden twining arms of the chandeliers on the ceiling. The roof was a steeply sloping plain of green tile complete with a delicate, elegant sign proclaiming proudly in bold, curling script that this was 'The Blue Danube'. And Harry hated it.

Petunia shot him a scathing look and tugged viciously at his hair again. If she carried on this way he was sure by the end of the night he would not have any hair left. He fiddled nervously with his half un-tucked shirt and loose cuffs, pulling them down as far as they would go, which incidentally was almost past his fingertips. It was thanks to his lightning quick reflexes that he managed to dodge Vernon's club of a foot stamping on him while they waited to be seated at the podium near the entrance doors. Yes, Harry really hated this, 'bonding time with the family.'

After half an hour of awkward waiting, in which Dudley became bored and started bullying him and Petunia shot him many nasty, warning looks, they were finally shoved into a corner, correction, Harry was shoved in a corner and their menus were stacked neatly on the edge of the table.

Harry took the opportunity, while his relatives were investing in small talk to show off the their neighbouring tables, to observe his surroundings. The room was wider than he had first thought. Stylish, plush carpets spanned the floor of the room, comfortable against any skin it came into contact with it. Tables were placed at a respectable distance from each other, adorned with pearl white tablecloths and silver cutlery. People with straight backs, expensive evening wear and perfectly grooms features were scattered around the room, talking politely to each other in refined, light voices that paled in comparison to Vernon's booming laugh that was so loud it was starting to embarrass Harry and, from the blush on her cheeks and think line of her mouth, Petunia too.

A contoured pillar stood to his left while Dudley's rotund bulk boxed him in on his right and the dazzling lights of a chandelier blinded him from above. He felt an odd sense of panic nudging at the edges of his mind persistently and really did wish it would vanish before it became too big. The Dursley's ordered their starter course - he received a glass of water - and Harry took to people watching again to pass the time.

Most of the people dotted around the room seemed to be very uninteresting, all the same glittering jewellery and faux fur and black tails over pristine white shirts with perfect bowties. Or that's what Harry thought until one woman came in. He didn't know what made her stand out from the rest, she didn't seem all that different, perhaps slightly more sophisticated, flaunting her wealth in less obvious ways. He was sure her black cocktail dress, which was a rather simple off the shoulder dress bar the intricate silver lining, was a designer brand and that the white gloves encasing her hands almost to the elbow were of the finest satin. But she didn't wear a diamond necklace which, had the restaurant really been underwater, would have caused her to drown like most of the female company in the room, but instead a minimal and possibly out of fashion pearl necklace. True, her lips were far too red and her eyes lined far too dark, but her hazel hair wasn't pampered overly well, simply falling around her face in soft curls.

Despite her features, though, Harry felt fear. He imagined her face could have looked kind, loving even, had she been chasing that particular effect. As it was, she looked cold, cruel and willing to do anything to reach her secret goals. Her blue eyes reminded Harry of ice and her posture reminded him of an iron pole. He knew this woman had no need to dress up for fancy meals to gain the respect of the people around her. Why should she when she already had it?

Harry tentatively sipped at his water, tuning in to Petunia's unintelligent comments whenever he thought she was looking at him. The woman was sitting in the extravagant waiting area, making a show of flicking her hair out of her eyes so she could glance at the clock and 'tut' loudly in disapproval. He was warily pleased when she was lead to a moderately sized table along the wall from him so his view of her was blocked by the pillar, which he was now growing rather fond of for this reason.

Petunia suddenly giggled loudly and he had to stop himself from spitting his water back out or exhaling it through his nose. In reply, Vernon boomed again and Dudley shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, fat wobbling over the sides of the chair, which Harry felt overwhelmingly sorry for. He sank lower into his chair, hoping that by some miracle people would assume he was of no relation to them despite his sitting at their table. He had never been embarrassed per se by his relatives, at least not in public, because they were usually so careful about keeping up appearances. But on reflection, and a quick look at their glasses, and Harry saw that they were actually more than half way through their second glasses of wine, even though the main course was still being cooked, and that half of their inhibitions had flown out the window with their dignity and self-respect. Harry's lip curled in contempt.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there before watching business man after business man stroll over to the hidden woman became unquestionably boring and repetitive. People who all looked to same; men with smiles that were too wide and replicated suits and women with the same flaunting dresses and carbon copied hairstyles. There was one group that caught his eye before they joined the hidden, and probably overflowing, table. They were a naturally pale bunch, standing out from the rest of the snobs who were either tanned to the extreme or plastered in cosmetics to achieve the ivory colouring. Their hair was like pure light floating heavenly around them. The man was tall and broad, but his eyes were steel grey and there was nothing soft about him. The woman was elaborate, her clothes matching those of the younger women in the establishment but she wore them with a superior air of sophistication. Her eyes, a large, crystal clear blue, stood out from her aristocratic face more than he had thought anyone's could.

The last person that followed was a younger man, Harry suspected he was only a few years older than him, still in his adolescent years. He was lithe, his structure and facial features taking more after, who Harry assumed to be, his mother than his father. He vaguely recognised him from somewhere and he knew it would niggle at the back of his mind, driving him insane. Something to keep him occupied at least.

Harry scowled some more. Tonight was going to be a very long night. The main course _still _hadn't arrived, his entertainment was concealed by stone and Dudley had decided watching his face wince in pain due to sharp jabs on his shins with his chunky, size nine feet was fun. He took courage in the fact that as soon as the main course has arrived and he had downed his next glass of water, he would be able to escape to the refuge of the bathroom for a good, relaxing half an hour, at least. Harry felt sure none of his relatives would notice and no one else in the restaurant cared enough to speak up even if they did.

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Draco knew they were inexcusably late. While he and his mother were waiting patiently in the entrance hall of the manor, he was absolutely positive Lucius had been in his dressing room buckling and re-buckling his belt, repeatedly tweaking his bow-tie and making sure he could walk perfectly without his new leather shoes squeaking, all the while reviewing his construction of the oncoming evening, running and rerunning it in his strategic mind trying to find flaws that would lead the evening away from his plans.

Draco knew Lucius was doing this for another reason as well. He wanted to test the boundaries of social politeness and see how far he could stretch them before his influence would begin to crumble. An hour after the intended meeting time, Lucius strolled down the grand stairway looking for all the world like the egotistical aristocrat he was. Draco felt like he wanted to vomit. God, he hated his father.

The ride through London to the dinner reservations was stifling. The back of the limo - yes, his father had always been a steadfast fan of travelling in style - was, despite its rumoured luxurious space, clogged up by his mother's flowing skirts and his father's toxic aftershave. He inconspicuously rolled the window down, ignoring the light scolding from his mother about how it would 'mess up her hair.' Thankfully, a heaven sent gift, the journey to their destination was relatively short. When he stepped out of the car, his door having been opened by the hired help of course, it was to the same glittering scenery that often fell into his path. At one time, he would have been impressed by the decorative glamour before him, now it just merged with the hundreds of other establishments he had been forced to frequent with his father before and he doubted that when the sun rose tomorrow morning he would even remember the colour of the carpet in the lobby, let alone the name.

Miss Anthia Davis, recently widowed due to her husbands apparent suicide, was a woman of class. Draco suspected she played a key role in her husbands death but either had the money, the charm or both to steer the law in another direction, thereby leaving herself and her daughter with a second fortune and the prospect of a third and fourth pending their individual marriages. However, her daughter was absent, thank the deity, and she sat with her back firmly against the wall managing to hold her own against a pack of business men his father had invited to interrogate her like a pack of scavenging wolves, who obviously were not worthy of sitting in their presence either, judging from the way their eyes were glued to the woman's cleavage like savages and the trails of drool down their chins. Neanderthals. Draco's lip curled back, revealing perfect white straight teeth, as he followed his mother and sire towards the unlikely group.

Lucius made a grand show of providing inadequate apologies for their tardiness, pointedly ignoring every guest except Davis, purposefully spearing her with his gaze, Draco assumed he was attempting to gauge how well she responded to his experiment, and he was sure she knew it was just that by the calculating look that lingered behind her cold eyes. Lucius slid into the seat opposite her, leaving Draco to act as the dutiful son and attend to his mother's needs, which he was more than happy to do as it prevented him from joining the banter for a precious few seconds.

After seating his mother two spaces from his father, where he had been curtly instructed to place her, he gracefully lowered himself significantly to perch on the chair between them, where he had been ordered to sit. Davis' eyes snapped away from Lucius and to him immediately, skimming over him as if he were a piece of meat for her to buy. It was only through sheer practise of the situation that Draco managed not to shiver in disgust at the uncomfortable feeling of having greedy eyes run the length of his visible body. Every mother looked at him this way when his father called them to a dinner reservation in the evening, he knew they were hoping, praying even, that they would make a respectable, superior impression on Lucius memory so that they might snatch his status as a bachelor from under his feet for their daughter's like a carpet swept from under his feet. None of them thus far had successfully managed it but then he supposed these people had to aim for something.

Draco half listened to the word games that were playing out around him as he surveyed this woman, her daughter his father's obvious next candidate for an advantageous marriage. On his right, his mother was entertaining perfectly the gentlemen that were now unneeded for the occasion as they had served their purpose. To his right, his father was dashing through political parties and motions in an effort to out play this woman. Draco could not hide his smile at this small failure. Davis was smart, he would allow her that little compliment.

Twenty minutes after their arrival, Draco deemed that he had stayed at the table long enough to merit a short excursion from the table, or perhaps it was the eager glint of warning that was present in Davis' eyes saying clearly that she would soon turn to talk to him exclusively. He excused himself with the justification of visiting the bathroom to freshen up before they began to dine. He flitted away before his father's glare could direct at him.

The gent's bathroom was empty when he arrived. It was of an acceptable standard for a restaurant of such supposedly high class but nothing worth advertising or gushing about. He quickly relieved himself at the urinal before zipping his designer slacks and walking leisurely to the marble sinks, rolling his shoulders and resting his palms on the worktops when he arrived. He hung his head down and stared at a trickle of clear water as it curved around the basin towards the black abyss.

He hated these dinners with a passion. Why did his father insist on interviewing these women like this, as if he were a prize or occupation to be won. If anything it should have been the other way around. Traditionally the girl should have been auctioned off to the best, or highest, bidder, whereas in this particular situation, Lucius had decided to subvert said tradition and trade Draco off for the best candidate, meaning the person he could gain most from after the marriage. Draco hated this situation. He hated dressing up for pointless dinner after pointless dinner. He hated his father for using him as some object to gain advantages in their social circle and a bargaining chip. He hated having no control over his destiny and he hated the games people around his liked to loop and sew to humiliate others in order to brutally seize their position on society's influential ladder. In other words, contrary to popular belief, Draco Malfoy hated his life.

The door squealed unpleasantly to his left as someone else trotted in. He gazed up at his reflection face in the mirror, a new light of determination sparking in his eyes. His father was resolutely governing over him, trying to control his every move. But a puppet master cannot control his puppets if they have no strings. Draco was no puppet.

"I'm sorry. Did you want to be alone?" A young, innocent voice stammered behind him suddenly. Draco shifted his stare to the figure behind him, taking in the distantly recognized features. Ugly glasses, chaotic hair and clothes that barely passed as acceptable in this environment. Draco felt, if he was quite honest, shocked and almost stunned that someone dressed like this would have the nerve to come out into public let alone to an upper-class restaurant. He felt one of his pale eyebrows raise in an automatic response to the boy's existence in the same room as him, breathing his air. As it was, he could not throw the boy back out the door without making a scene and, therefore, causing discovery.

"It's a public toilet." He stated frostily, wishing he could hiss at the boy for being such an uncouth blemish on the face of the planet.

"I know, you just seemed like you needed a moment." The boy appeared to be pleased with himself, probably because he had managed not to stammer in awe whilst standing in his presence.

"Why?" Draco always found monosyllabic replies to create an uneasy tension in the air that seemed to affect his opponents far more than they affected him.

"Well…it's just…you just did, okay." The boy found a lick of courage at the last moment and a dam shattered, enabling him to speak clearly. Draco hummed in response and focused back on the sinks, concentrating on washing his hands and ignoring the annoying persistence of the twitch in the filing cabinet of his mind, searching for this youth's face amongst the excessive number he kept stored there. It hit when he was just managing to forget the urge to study him more closely.

"You're the kid from the dance studio."

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Review please Thanks and check out my other stories

Yours

Dark Raven 4426


	5. Chapter 5

Right, so here's chapter five.

**HAVE YOUR SAY: _Should i change the name of this fic to 'Freedom', for reasons that will become clearer in this chapter. This is the name i have chosen and no other names are up for debate. Please review with an answer, i'd like your opinion._**

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Chapter 5

It wasn't often that Harry found himself attempting to converse with a perfect stranger, and a perfect stranger he was indeed. After shuffling his feet nervously and feeling rather idiotic, he started searching out any sign of a visible flaw. There were none, he found, much to his disdain and annoyance. The boy standing before him had flawless skin, eyes a faultless shade of blue and exactly the right size for his face without being too close together, not a fair hair out of place and lips that could, with the slightest twitch, make any emotion he may pursue to evoke happen within a second. It was this feeling of inadequacy that was induced that made him dislike the boy rather than the superior sneer that was directed at him - although he supposed that did play a role in it as well.

He felt awkward with those eyes drilling into him, picking out every blemish on his person where he could find none in return. In his thoughts, Harry suspected the other was probably drawling internally over his mussed hair, thick glasses that made his eyes haunting and 'freaky' as his cousin liked to say, lips that were too thin for his square jaw that he hadn't yet managed to convince himself was only strong and masculine and ridiculously short stature. He was most likely also picking out the missing buttons on his hand-me-down clothes and shoes that were so worn out that sometimes a thread could be seen trailing after him like an abandoned puppy, much like himself really. And, of course, this boy had to be wearing seamless, designer labels that were the latest fashion of formal wear, but what else should he have expected; this was a very highly respected restaurant after all.

There was also the intimidating looks of authority; the raised, slender eyebrows of sculpted fine hairs, the permanent sneer that varied between disgust, irritation and impatience. And in reply, all Harry could find it in himself to do was shuffle his ragged feet, blush in what he was sure was a very unattractive way and fight the half-shocked expression that was stuck on his face from the statement.

Unfortunately, he had no idea who this person was. Even if he had been standing right in front of him at the studio, he doubted he would have noticed, despite his being some kind of an angel. His emotions had been far too out of control and he was far too anxious to do anything but rage out of the building or fight with Ron about things that really weren't his friend's fault and he would have to apologize for snapping at later. Then, he felt everything get worse as he was reminded of the guilt he should have been feeling.

It took what felt like forever, but finally, painstakingly, he managed to grasp control over his vocal chords if nothing else in his body.

"I'm sorry. I don't remember you." He gulped but was, overall, pleased with the calmness he managed to convey despite his voice being slightly hoarse.

"You! Not remember me!" The other boy, although Harry realised he should have been terming him as a man, exclaimed dramatically, backing up into the sink - and still annoyingly looking every bit as graceful as he did standing still - as if this was a considerable shock to him. In fact, Harry saw his eyes widen slightly in alarm. "That's insulting! And to think, I remembered you!" Harry got the silly impression the man was almost making the situation into a competition but quickly dismissed the thought in order to think of another reply that wouldn't make him appear more stupid than a talking statue did anyway.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled in reply, not really sure why he was asking for forgiveness but feeling he somehow owed this man something just for being allowed to remain in his angelic presence…Harry wanted to smack himself and if he had been able to move his limbs he swore he would have.

"You're sorry? Sure." He seemed to realise he was staggering against the counter and so leaned nonchalantly back onto it, resting his palms behind him and thrusting his chest out slightly as if to prove he were in command of the situation. Harry didn't think he needed to do any such thing as he felt very much inferior as it was without this man putting out waves of supremacy in his aura. "What's a run down rat like you doing in an uptown place like this anyway?"

"Thanks, yes a rat, I should have known." Harry scowled at him, relieved that the paralysis on his facial muscles at least was wearing off.

The man gave him a dark look, bantering "I could have called you a sewer rat" and sweeping his hand in a grand, questioning gesture that compelled Harry to answer his question.

"It's my aunt's birthday." He said, glaring more venomously at the stranger, his face becoming vaguely more familiar by the second. He was sure in the minutes that followed his mind would supply him with the answers he needed.

"And you couldn't remain home because…?"

"You're kidding, right. They'd never trust me enough to do that." It was maddening how this stranger, which by definition meant someone _he did not know_, could make him respond to every question he posed effortlessly. Harry didn't think anything of his replies until it was too late and he had already given them. There was something in his voice that forced him to comply to whatever he wished. It was leadership and depth and control. Harry grudgingly acknowledged the traits but reasoned that he didn't have to agree with their use on him.

The man hummed in response before turning and passing his hand under the automatic tap and sliding his fingers through the warm, gushing water. Harry couldn't help but stare at the slim digits as they sliced elegantly and effortlessly through the stream, tendrils of steam curling delicately around them.

And then he found himself, for the second time in the last two minutes or so, wanting to hit himself because, on a rare and swift glance back up at the man's face, he saw blue eyes piercing into his skin with an aggravating inner sparkle of amusement. Harry's jaw clenched. The git found the whole situation funny!

"Isn't it polite to introduce yourself in situations like this?"

"And what is this situation?" The man flicked his head minutely to one side, flipping a stray hair - that was of course purposefully there just so he could perform said action - from his forehead.

"A meeting of strangers. Your name?" Harry asked, agitated. He felt some secret relief that he tried desperately not to show on his face when he was able to wriggle his toes in his worn shoes and slide backwards with as much grace as his skinny body would allow - which really wasn't much when off the dance floor and even then it was a sort of accidental grace that came from falling through the air towards the ground often. However, this action came to an embarrassing halt when he realised through his peripheral vision in the mirror that he was about the bump into the urinals behind him. Again, delight flashed in those eyes, which he only now comprehended he was staring into and that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break the cold gaze.

"Draco Malfoy." The clear bell of his voice shifted something in his memory and he saw him again, only this time he was bumping into his shoulder as he hurried from the studio, anger blurring the edges of his vision. He heard snide whispers aimed at Hermione at the back of his mind and half-hearted attempts to regain the spotlight while he and his two friends were arguing. And of course the phone call screamed out in his head as well. The_ shame!_ Harry's head dropped, breaking the intense eye contact.

"You remember then." Said the invisible speaker omnisciently, hidden by Harry's thick tangle of hair he called a fringe. He nodded, a slight movement that he knew that rapt attention would pick up. "Your name?" He mimicked, a strange gentleness in his tone that made Harry look up at him again, hastily brushing his ebony hair from his crumpled eyes. Malfoy was facing towards him again, his softened eyes still ice cold but a lighter colour that intrigued Harry to no end. It was the only part of his face that betrayed his emotionless, holier-than-thou attitude and let Harry see any kind of humanity in the chiselled features.

"Harry. Harry Potter."

* * *

Of course, Draco already knew that but good etiquette and manners should always come foremost when one was making conversation with a new acquaintance. He half felt that his polite attitude was a personal punishment for his wandering eyes, which kept being drawn along the defined bone structure of his face. He somehow managed to scan over the slightly unhealthy, hollowed cheeks and ignore the wide and panicked eyes. Instead he was pondering on that strong jaw, fresh but light complexion and bright, sprite-like irises. The boy's cheek bones were refined and high in a prominent, but perhaps a little common, way and his forehead was submerged with thatches of dark locks that looked unspeakably tangled and should be thrown in prison for being allowed to appear in public unabashed. But Draco found himself thinking these feature endearing in a bothersome way.

His movements were awkward but they held an untapped grace not unlike a lithe feline as he clenched his fists nervously or scuffled one way or another on the relatively clean, tiled floor. Draco could see hidden potential for greatness in this lad that would never be recognised, judging from his uncared-for lifestyle. And so, he tried to ignore the unexploited flair, this gift, knowing that nothing would ever come of the boy. He would wrestle uncouthly with no one on a hard floor and call it dancing. He would waste away in that scrawny body and live a useless, unneeded life like every other worthless, poor slob in the country. Draco was exasperated by his interest in such a insignificant commoner but wanted, even knowing that he would never amount to anything and that his father would disapprove whole-heartedly, to form a bond with this boy. A friendship.

"Nice to meet you, Harry, Harry Potter." He murmured regally, glancing up at him malevolently through his eyelashes and morphing his mouth into his most snotty sneer. "What are you doing hiding in here anyway?

"Who says I was hiding!" Potter answered too quickly and immediately looked guilty. Draco avoided his gaze for a second to enjoy a subtle private moment of pleasure at his flushed expression of embarrassment. Draco took his time scanning his eyes over him again before answering.

"Your wide eyes. Your shuffling feet. Fidgeting hands. General edginess. Take your pick." He adjusted his position against the sink countertop, shifting the hard, unforgiving further up his spine and away from his coccyx and onto another knobble of his spine. He folded his arms impatiently over his chest, attempting to demonstrate as unimpressed an appearance as he could.

"Alright. Alright!" Harry glared up at him, throwing his arms up melodramatically as he nestled himself up against the wall snugly between two urinals. The action only served to remind Draco of just how small the boy was and he could not fight off the instinct that somewhere, veiled behind secretive eyes, he was feeling an ache at the new position against the solid tile. He was reminded distinctly of the violent phone call and argument that had repeated themselves to the extreme over the past dozen minutes in his overactive mind. "Fine, I wanted to get away from my relatives. So sue me for wanting a bit of peace." Draco found himself smiling internally at the 'petulant child' expression that crossed his face.

"Me too." He muttered back through his teeth and tried not to cringe visibly at the Neanderthal and straightforward phrase that should never be said by one of his calibre. Draco Malfoy had always been a lonely child, growing into an isolated adolescent teenager and solitary man. He did, however, understand the importance of communication with other humans for the health of mentality. This was the excuse he used, companionably 'chatting' with a new acquaintance in order to form a relationship from which he would psychologically benefit, for his taken interest in the awkward, pubescent boy before him. Chances of meeting new people in his class did not come along often and while this short time was in the present he may as well make the most of it. Additionally, the fact that he would be sharing a dance studio with this boy and his group for the near future was in the forefront of his mind, driving him to make a sort of lenient friendship with the kid.

"What? You don't like spending time with your folks?" Said the boy's innocent voice and Draco could not help sighing quietly at the naivety of the common person about the life of the wealthy. They obviously had no idea that possessing money was not all related to parties and fancy items.

"Obviously. Although that's not quite the reason I'm in here. Not them anyway." Potter looked at him questioningly and there was something in those eyes that somehow forced him to answer, albeit through slightly gritted teeth. "My father likes to invite the mothers' of possible spouses to dinners such as these. Gets rather tiresome after a while, all political games. And the restaurant really isn't anything special." He played the blasé card, adding a distained sniff and flicking off lint from his shoulder for extra effect - although he would admit this was a little melodramatic and by Potter's raised eyebrow, he thought the same.

"But this place is wonderful!" He suddenly burst out. Draco just gawked stupidly at him as he sprang energetically from the wall and leapt a metre - that is, a quarter of the way across the room - towards him. "All the elegant detail. Oh, the chandeliers, and the carpets, and the beautiful ocean-"

"Are you gay or something?" Draco cut in sarcastically more as a means of shutting the lad up and stopping him from taking his third bounding step towards him, which Draco found rather alarming by the way, than as a serious comment. The boy shuffled back again, all confidence leaking from his person as a perplexed scowl crossed his features. Draco only just held in a laugh at the inexperienced nature of this socially stunted boy, obviously picking up sarcasm was not his strong suit.

"I don't think so…" He answered, the words thoughtfully slow, punctuating every letter perfectly through sculpted lips.

"I was joking, you twat." Draco could see the offence Potter was about to take in a moment and thought it wise to move the conversation forward onto new topics. "Look, it's just that all these places seem to look alike after a while. So why did you start dancing anyway?" Potter appeared taken aback by the abrupt change but he slouched in defeat, crumpling a little further away. Draco breathed a sigh of relief, close quarters were not his speciality, which left the boy standing in the middle of the room looking as if he were frozen in time.

"Freedom." And in that one word, Draco could hear the confidence suddenly crackling in the air. Those eyes were slicing into his with a hard security. His limbs were perfectly still, his spine straightened, his shoulders set proudly back and his head held high, knocking any distracting hairs from his face to show the pure _glow_ in his eyes. Despite not knowing what the boy was talking about, Draco felt the magnitude of the word practically vibrate through the room with the strength of its meaningfulness.

"What?" And the query came out much smaller than he would have liked, but he felt the answer to be much more important than the question.

"Freedom." He repeated and the moment was broken. The pressure pressing in on Draco's ears disappearing was such a welcome release, although perhaps not a relief, that he did not notice Potter stepping back towards him again. "When I dance," he whispered for only Draco's ears as if he were confiding in him his most trusted secret, "I am free; from the outside world and from what's in here." He tapped a skinny finger to his temple lightly. "I don't have to think about anything else. It's just me, my heart racing. The sound of my feet, my hands, my _body _pounding against the floor, creating my own music. That is freedom. It's my escape." And Draco believed him. The sincerity in his eyes was unmistakable. They were wide with fear, and Draco could tell he had never meant to divulge that much about himself to a perfect stranger but Draco _understood_ him. Every word he said, Draco believed him because he believed himself.

It was a strange feeling that Draco felt then. The need to return the trust that the boy had placed in his hands. Draco had never experienced this emotion, this reciprocation. It was strange but not altogether unpleasant or unwanted. He could feel the new horizons opening up in front of him; dazzling him, and he liked it. Potter was close to him, as if by moving close to him he could make him comprehend better.

"At first," Draco began slowly, swallowing theatrically, not really sure if he should trust this feeling of faith in another person, "I started to dance because it was something my father made me do." The ragged boy nodded, involuntarily inching towards him further, so he could smell the coconut hints of product wafting from his hair. "He didn't want me to embarrass him at social events and I went along with it, I was too young to know better. But then I actually started to like it. It wasn't so much a freedom or an escape, it was just an appreciation to the human body, of music, of the merging of two souls. What the two of us call 'dancing' are very different concepts but when I dance, especially with a partner, I can feel an echo of this compatibility and love and belonging and perfection, like this is a little piece of what we could be creating, this beauty." Draco knew he was rambling, that the boy probably did not understand a word he was saying, but once he started the green eyes, that were steadily growing larger and larger as they moved closer and closer, would not let him stop. And amazingly enough, he did not want to stop, even though he barely understood himself and therefore Potter had not chance of doing so.

He saw them as if he were a separate entity. He had not realised his breathing had increased to rapid puffs nor that Potter was a mere hand's width or two away, practically pawing up at his shirt in his eagerness to find a kindred spirit.

Then he was back, looking down at hollow cheeks and endless eyes, and he did not care that his father was in the next room, that this boy was a stranger or that he was a boy. He did not care that this was such a completely idiotic thing to even be comprehending let alone seeing through and that he would certainly and thoroughly regret even entertaining these thoughts in a few moments. All he cared about was the intoxicating smell of coconut and peppermint and the glow of emeralds and the light brushing of hesitant fingertips on his hand. All he cared about was the overriding thought that he wanted to kiss this boy, unquestionably and unequivocally, really wanted to kiss him for no plausible reason.

* * *

**I know it was completely cruel to leave it there but i couldn't resist the cliffi and i really wanted to post, plus this is longer than usual**

**Review and don't forget the title question; should i change it to 'Freedom'?**

**I hope everything was explained okay, im not sure if people will get it, but i got into a writing mood an hour or so ago - note, it's five in the morning - and really wanted to do Draco's half and post it.  
**

**Review please**

**Yours**

**Dark Raven 4426  
**


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: right well this one's just a tad longer in honour of a new mark - 60 favourite adds - this story has achieved. Keep those reviews coming pretty please. Oh, and a special shout out to **DesperateLoveKoi** who has become a faithful follower and fantastic new friend. Heads up :D

Oh and as you'll have noticed i have changed the title and summary although i will not be going back and changing all the chapters until the story is finished and i go back to edit/re-proofread.

Before i forget, do go check out my most recent one-shot **Butterfly Goodbye**, it's had really good reviews and i'd appreciate some more opinions.

review if you please, lol

one more thing, i know the beginning is abrupt but i wanted it to be, that was the aim and yes, there is another cruel cliff hanger which i couldn't resist and apologise for here. Sorry guys but it had to be done.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Harry couldn't believe this was happening. Never before in his life had he shown such a brazen spontaneity. He could feel warm puffs of air ghosting over his cheeks, tingling gently over his skin like skimming caresses. At one point their noses brushed ever so softly at the tips and he felt his heart stutter, although whether it was in anticipation of what was to come or indignation that it wasn't happening yet he didn't know. His fingers were gracing over the smooth expanse of his wrists, almost to the point where he was pinning him, without his permission, in fact he wouldn't realise until later that he had been doing it.

It was as their lips were just closing in, less than a breath away, that the resounding 'BANG' echoed through the bathroom and an effeminate shriek, that could only just be discerned as a male, shrilled from the vague direction of the doorway but Harry couldn't be sure because lusty hormones were still racing through his veins like thundering wild, water horses on a rampage upon the ocean waves.

A meaty hand clamped down hard on his shoulder, breaking the heavenly moment of tension and turning it to a nightmare of aches, there was a bruise there and he would bet his life there would be another tomorrow. The following minutes happened so quickly, Harry wasn't really sure what happened, his memories of the time were flashes of wall and ceiling and floor and feet as he tripped, stumbled and was flung out of the restaurant, a heavy ranting filling his ears, assuring him of his uncle's fury.

Needless to say, he went to bed crumpled up in his old, little cupboard that night with no food in his belly and fresh, seeping welts marring his back.

* * *

Harry's face twitched doubtfully. Hermione was whooshing energetically thought the air, Ron weaving strategically and precisely under her quickly moving feet. They had asked him to become the official choreographer of their competition piece, working from the bare skeleton of a performance they had put together to 'inspire' him. He had agreed immediately, they were his best friends after all and he felt he owed Ron an apology for snapping at him. But now, looking at what they had organized for him to work from, he was beginning to regret and doubt himself.

Hermione had a rugged grace that came with dancing for a long time. When they first met, she had been a ballet dancer, shielded from the world of 'his kind of dance,' as her parents called it, and unaware of everything else out there. It took many years for her to convince her parents that street dance wasn't some kind of evil cult of Neanderthal thugs off the streets but another art form of expression. At one time, her classical skills had structured her body, dominating it and disallowing free movement, but over time, Harry and Ron had enticed her into dropping her guards while she was dancing, causing her actions to more freely express her emotions, reducing that uptight, controlled grace to its current state; a demonstration of expression and emotion that wasn't governed by laws and names.

Her foot arced through the air impossibly quickly and Harry just had time to lock his eyelids shut before the inevitable 'thunk' of her knee hitting Ron's jaw clunked out into the room, closely followed by his yelp of anguish, practically telling Harry that his determination was crumbling into nothing, and his lanky body falling to the floor, exhausted and pained.

"So…what did you…think?" Ron gasped, pausing to gulp down a great lungful of air every few words.

"Do you want me to be honest or nice?" He asked cautiously, standing slowly, wary of his new abrasions, and wandering over to circle around them.

"Harry, we know you're our friend but this is a completely separate matter. This is business. You have to give us your honest opinion." Hermione lurched upright to stare at him earnestly, trying to impress the weight and importance of her words. Harry nodded reluctantly and took a few, precautionary steps back away from them, vaguely recognising that the door swung open behind him, admitting two people.

"Honestly?" Hermione nodded eagerly up at him while Ron collapsed back, boneless, against the hard floor. "It was all over the place. It needs a _lot _of work. I'll keep my promise though. We'll do this." He glanced back at them, and yelped when he saw two people lingering in the doorway, heads held high as if they weren't intruding on a _strictly private practise. _"Who are you two?"

"Oh! Blaise! Pansy! You're early!" Hermione hopped up and toddled over to them, tipping every so often as her tired feet gave way. The girl practically _sashayed _forward to grasp Hermione's uselessly flapping hand that was clawing at the air as if attempting to find some sort of purchase. "Harry's just helping us with our dance, you know, for the competition."

"It didn't sound like it was going very well." The girl replied warmly and Harry got the impression that she didn't act with such kindness often; it looked strange, as if her lips weren't meant to be twisting into that gentle smile and her shoulders weren't meant to be that relaxed. The same went for the boy. That was when Harry realised who they must have been.

"You're part of the ballroom troop." He stated blandly and moved forward to shake each of their hands politely in turn. "I'm Harry Potter, one of the dancers here."

"Blaise Zabini."

"Pansy Parkinson. You're a choreographer?"

"Oh, no," Harry stumbled back, shoving his hands desperately up before him, quickly trying to correct their mistake. "I'm just another da-"

"Don't you dare, Harry!" Hermione sprung at him, her energy flaming back to life, fuelling the passion in her brown eyes. She spun back on her heel to face their visitors. "Harry's amazing! A complete natural - stop shaking your head, you know it's true - and he's just doing us a favour, really. An outsiders perspective, he's got an eye for this sort of stuff." Hermione exclaimed, excitement building with her every word. Harry inched backwards, he hated it when she got like this. It felt like she was especially volatile, more than usual, and liable to explode at any moment, which was a scary thing.

The feeling of dark eyes scolding over his skin made him glance up, pulling his flimsy jacket closer to his body like a shield and check that the sleeves were firmly pulled all the way down his arms. Zabini was _examining, _he couldn't think of a better word for it, him, his near black eyes searing across his face, pausing briefly on the faint bruise on one cheek - which meant that the make-up he had stolen from his Aunt was wearing off. Harry glared at him, unintentionally baring his teeth.

"I'll be back in a minute." He virtually yelped and turned towards the bathroom, narrowly missing tripping over Ron's dazed head.

"What? But…" Hermione spluttered.

"We won't be a bother, just carry on, we promise," he heard Parkinson say, not shout but he still heard it perfectly clearly.

"Jesus, I said a minute." He hollered back, knowing that he had lost his temper with his friends too quickly for it to be valid, _again._

In the bathroom, he felt the intense urge to plunge his face into a freezing pool of water, but knew the resulting conflict due to the loss of cover-up would be fiery, dangerous and completely not worth it. So, instead, he fingered the taut skin of his cheek, trying not to wince as he brushed the bruise. He couldn't see it. He hoped to whatever deity that existed that it wasn't just the light tricking him because right now, due to that reminder of his situation he figured, all he really wanted was to go back out there and fly, even with their guests standing by to jab at them for everything they did without a second thought.

It was with that contemplation that he strode confidently, perhaps overly so, from the bathroom and through the two doors into the studio, thrusting a hand into his haggard hair and the other into his jacket pocket. Ron was animatedly arguing with Zabini while Hermione and Parkinson were making barely civil small-talk nearby.

"What music were you thinking of using?" He bellowed over the consequential racket, causing an immediate outbreak of silence and all eyes to turn on him, which wasn't altogether a comforting action. The centre of attention was definitely not his preferred place. He stepped up to the stereo system, checking his face in the mirror opposite for any visible sign of mutilation. None. Feeling safe again, and breathing a sigh to physically show it, he scanned through the listings of the first copied CD, courtesy of Bill Weasley, their official music supplier, and hoped whole-heartedly that he wouldn't receive-

"Track nine of that one," -as his answer. Harry rummaged through the pile until he found something a little more adequate.

"No, definitely not. It screams disconnection. Try this one." The piece thumped through the room, bass stirring the speakers back to life. Harry twist expectantly and gestured impatiently for them to get a move on.

"Oh, right." Ron gasped before they both jumped into action, leaping for the centre of the room at the same moment and knocking each other on the head with various limbs. Harry felt some niggle of warning in the back of his mind, that he had bitten off far more than he could possibly chew, but he ignored it and, knowing they only had half an hour or so before they had to give up the studio, he moved forwards to give each of them long, serious stares in turn.

"You guys are thinking of yourselves as separate entities. You're meant to be dancing as a couple, reading each other's movements and reacting accordingly. Hermione, begin. Ron stand back with…" he waved distantly towards their guests who were edging around towards the cushioned sea by the window. "Right." And Hermione bounded into motion.

And it was like no one else was there. The second he slid beneath Hermione's rapidly kicking, low angled leg, spinning his body low to the ground and carrying the brunt of his bodyweight on one hand to fling himself around her standing leg and arcing back up at her reverse, nothing else mattered. Ron wasn't there trying to learn his every movement as he fabricated them seconds before turning them into physical motions of expression and grace. Parkinson and Zabini weren't there waiting for him to screw up so they could laugh and jeer at him. He forgot everything, even the aches of his abused body and the painful scuffs that covered his skin under the material of his carefully chosen clothes. It was just he and Hermione and an unlimited number of possibilities that moulded and shifted with their every move.

It was as he swivelled on the heal of his foot under her almost doubled over back that he heard Ron's whoop for joy and shriek that translated that perhaps this wasn't a lost cause but he scarcely paid it any attention, he was far too busy anticipating what Hermione would do next, probably some sort of back flip if he knew her style, which he was confident he did and so jolted disconnectedly downwards to give her more space.

At one point, he did fear that he had made the wrong decision, when he decided that he and Hermione needed to interact more and grabbed her outstretched forearm, splaying his fingers across her skin for as much contact as possible and used their body mass' to counterbalance them and swing them past each other. However, her smile, unguarded and liberated, told him he needn't have worried and she, in turn, leapt partially over his left shoulder while he zipped below her, particularly glad at that point that they had recently polished the wood and it was especially slippery. He couldn't help the beam of pure glee that sprang to his face. He could feel his eyes actually _sparkling _with joy, untainted, untouchable joy. He felt like he really could fly, so he did.

When he was sure Hermione was at a safe distance for a brief second, he twisted to the floor, coiling the muscles in his legs and feeling very much like a cat about the pounce on a flying bird. And his small frame flared to life as he sailed through the air, slicing through it without any resistance. He registered with some innate sense he had always possessed, that Hermione was moving into her finishing pose. And, as he approached back to earth, although not without a little reluctance and resentment of gravity, he flung himself forward, catching a glimpse of his twinkling eyes in a mirror and winking teeth around bowed lips and skin alight with fresh life, and jammed his hand onto the wooden floor, tucking his small body sideways to wrap around it and skimming across the surface in a full circle, not even trying to stop or balance the forces driving him.

When the music had finished pounding in his ears - he figured Ron must have turned it off - he found himself sprawled out on the floor, staring up at the plain whitewash ceiling, his lungs bursting and the feeling that he was being cheated out of what was his. That always happened. Time always sped up and he was left regretting that he hadn't done such and such or hadn't managed to do something or other better. But still, he thought the demonstration had gone well.

And then the soreness returned two fold.

* * *

One of the things Draco detested in this world, was the unpunctual. It was for this very reason that he found himself marching meaningfully towards the unremarkable double doors that opened onto the first floor dance studio he was currently being forced to dance in, not by his own choice mind. His awareness was a complete mess, so much so, in fact, that he had had to skip breakfast altogether for fear that Lucius might pay the Manor one of his unpredictable visits, as he was in a habit of doing, and see how worked up he was, attempting to exploit the weakness while he could, which Draco really could not allow.

In his honest opinion, the events of the last night had been a complete and utter disaster. Questions, each as bothersome as the next, kept circulating in his brain. Why had he been so captivated by a stranger? Why had he allowed said stranger so close to his person? So close as to nearly _kiss _him? Which, now Draco had the chance to review his actions, was absolutely disgusting. What would have happened if it had been his relation, Lucius to be precise, that had walked in on their intimate…moment and not that unfortunate boy's? And, most annoyingly, the question of what had happened to said boy after he was hauled from the restaurant? This last question was the most pressing one and it irritated him that it should be a concern for someone else and not his own welfare that he was worrying about foremost.

Draco pushed one of the doors open, aware that it was not technically his right to enter and that he should be polite but had no reason to be happy about it, and slid through into the studio. He was greeted by a heavy silence that was punctuated only by the creaking of the bulky door scraping back behind him slowly and a loud, even to his own unadulterated ears that were not polluted by the ringing that was caused by the music that 'this lot' played, irregular gasps for air from the centre of the room. He stared down at Granger, who was sprawled out about a meter from the other body and whose black clump of hair he recognised immediately, arms flopping out uselessly to the side and her chest rising alarmingly quickly, exactly the same as…Potter's.

"And that…Ron…is how…it's…done…" Wheezes of air, that sounded unhealthily rapid, punctured his words but Draco still heard the finality in the last word. Potter's neck seemed to give way under his head, despite the fact that he had barely raised it and his head thumped back onto the floor with hardly any control at all. His lips folded into a wince.

"Holy shit, mate." Amazement. Awe. These were the things that Draco could read from the voice that echoed out into the room from somewhere in the far off distance. He dimly recognised Blaise and Pansy sitting, straight backed and frozen in their wonder and surprise. But at that moment, the feelings of the night were coming back to haunt him and he was reminded of just why he had almost let this stranger kiss him. Of why it would _not _have been disgusting - anything but he reflected - and of why he wished he could go back in time so that he could bodily shove the lad into a cubicle where they _would not be seen or caught!_

"You alright, 'Mione?" Potter slump his head to the side in her direction as if he were using up the last of his energy reserves.

"Harry." She stopped and, although her face was hidden from him, Draco thought she was unconfident about whether she should voice her thought on the upcoming subject. She paused for a single second more and then plunged in before she could stop herself. "I think you should enter a solo for the competition." He saw her entire body tense.

"Don't be silly, 'Mione. The solo section is for people like Justin, people who've been dancing all their lives." Draco heard the fake chirpiness in his voice and the hidden disappointment. "Besides, Vernon would never allow it." Weasel-face suddenly swung into action on the other side of the room, stepping purposefully onto the dance floor and walking towards Granger.

"Who says he has to know?" He asked, a conspiratorial grin shivering across his features as he leant down to grab Granger's hand and pull her to her feet. "And fuck 'em. You've got a hundred times more talent than those posh snobs. Just because you don't have that kind of money doesn't mean you should miss out."

"But, Ron," came Potter's agitated response, "even you said most people wouldn't have a chance at the singles, that's exactly the reason you guys paired up for the doubles. And how the hell am I supposed to hide that amount of money from him, even after I raise it?" He clambered gracelessly to his knackered feet, weariness showing through in his every muscle.

"…I could lend you the money, pay upfront for you. Then you could pay me back in small instalments after. He never needs to know, Harry. Please. For us. You deserve more." Granger skipped over to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, looking at him with what Draco assumed from his awkward angle of view in the mirrors, was a pleading expression.

"Yeah, mate, and even if you don't believe you're good enough, we do. We think you could go all the way. They can't be that competitive in the solo's that they'd outcast you. The groups have always been friendly enough, even to the no-talenters." Flame-head reasoned.

"I don't know," Potter murmured, but in the silence of the studio everyone could hear him. Draco felt some inner light flicker back to animation when he saw the excitement burst into life in his eyes as his defensive walls of resistance crumble. Determination hardened his stride as he walked forward to clamp a hand on one of his wide set shoulders. "Fine. Let's do it. You're right. They can't be all that nasty and I'll be the first one from the group to go in for singles." A chortle of laughter rose from the three of them.

"That's the attitude, mate. But this doesn't get you out of helping us. You can bloody well stay late to work on your routine." The Goof teased.

"Wouldn't dream of it. Come on, let's give these guys an extra ten minutes rehearsal, I think we're done." Potter said, heading to the stereo where a rugged looking messenger bag lay forlorn and dying.

"You'll go down in troop history!" Hermione enthused, following him like a shadow. "I mean, every generation that uses this place for street dance will know your name!"

"Let's not go overboard here, 'Mione. I'm only entering. Come on, let's get out of their hair. Hey, it was nice to meet you guys." Potter tilted himself with a trace of grace that Draco immediately latched onto, his eyes following every motion hungrily. He shook hands with Pansy and Blaise, which mildly surprised Draco, and then pivoted around in another shift that Draco could not help but eagerly track some instinct that drew him towards perfection or anything that passed a certain bar, which Potter most definitely did at that moment.

And then he walked passed Draco as if he didn't exist.

* * *

What did you think.

Again sorry for the cliff hanger

Reviews please, it makes my day when i open my email in the morning and find somewhere between 10 and twenty from ff about a new post (i've never had more than that :( )

Yours

Dark Raven 4426


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Right so here you are, finally the answer to the cliffhanger...and then another cliffhanger:p but some of you asked for more Harry/Draco interaction so i've done a nice set up for you guys for the next chapter. Be pleased! And review. I love reviews, seriously they make my day even if it's just 'Thumbs up! Yay' or something. And i do try to reply to them all.**_

_**Oh, and btw, it's my 18th birthday next month -WOOHAYYY ALCOHOL GALORE!! **(unless you're an ickle kiddie in which case you have my permission to continue imagining me as a saint...although you shouldn't be reading this if you're a little kid...)__ **but anyway. In celebration - on ff anyway - im creating a 2-shot the first part of which will be up on the 18th of November - it's already written and beta'd. Drarry of course, really good im hoping, my best so far. so keep a look out and i really want you guys to stay true to me. This is my special day coming up after all.**_

_**But anyways, on with the story, i'll probably post before then again anyway.  
**_

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Draco felt no remorse as he vigorously swung Pansy around, practically hauling her entire body weight into his arms and jerking her off the floor. How dare he. How _dare _he! The _nerve_ of that…that…_**boy!**_ Draco glared furiously into the scarlet abyss above Pansy's head, grabbing her hand with flexing fingers and rudely ignoring her shriek of indignation that halted the other swirling pairs around them. He continued.

What right did _he_, a penniless Pauper, have to disregard _**him**_, the greatest and grandest Prince to bless society for two generations!! He just wanted to sharpen his metaphorical long-sword and ram it through the _bastards_ heart so he'd know exactly what it felt like. He wanted to plunge him into an ocean of ice water that would chill him to the bone and make him shiver as if he were in a frozen hell, just like Draco. He wanted to knee him where it hurt and make his precious jewels shrivelled and impotent, like how Draco's felt when he was completely dismissed. He wanted to tug at his heart strings and yank his stomach out through his throat so he could feel the guilt he _should _have been feeling.

The sheer _insolence_ of some people.

And after Draco had been _so _kind as to actually _**acknowledge **_that mongrel!

"…Draco…"

"…_Draco…"_

"…_**DRACO!**_"

Draco froze, voicing a rather effeminate noise he would never admit to making later, and snapped his snarl sharpened eyes down to Pansy.

" Draco, you're hurting me!" Draco felt his muscles clench up, his arms cramping, his fists locking, his toes curling, his stomach and legs tensing.

"Practise is over! Get out!" He suddenly sneered into the silent room, throwing Pansy's hand violently from his own and causing her to stumble into another pair. He turned away from them to face the window, catching the swift motion of a pigeon zipping passed. Shuffling, gentle in their nervousness and scraping in their haste, could be heard behind him.

Draco's hand lashed out at the stereo innocently playing the gentle tendrils of music as commanded. The room was silent so suddenly that Draco momentarily heard his heart slamming through the room. His ears were ringing and he felt dizzy. He strode to the cushioned corner and flung himself into the ocean of colour, not much caring when he knocked his nose on the hidden floor beneath.

"What's going on, Draco?" Blaise was the first to speak out, his melodious tone tingling calmingly through the air. It was true that he had never lived out of the country but his mother was foreign and growing up beside her had lilted his accent slightly.

"Why would you think something's wrong?" Draco said, voice muffled by the fabric against his mouth.

"Does your practically strangling me during practise count for nothing?" Pansy asked sweetly, much closer than he thought she was. He moaned self-pityingly and buried himself deeper into the plump mass.

"Draco." Blaise's voice was stern and warning. Draco sat up immediately.

"This is my problem." He muttered, not daring to meet either of their eyes. "I'll deal with it on my own. I'm sorry if I hurt you, Pans. Now can I have some privacy?" From his peripheral vision he saw them glance at each other before relenting and retreating without a single word although he noticed that they never turned their backs until the doors had closed behind them.

Draco flopped back and lay spread eagled on top of the bumpy, plush surface. Annoyingly, his anger was dissipating, which was bad as, if he was not angry, then he would be forced to consider his situation rationally and with deeper thought than his ire addled brain could have fathomed.

It occurred to him that his father would be home for dinner that night and that he would have to make an appearance as the consequences of not doing so later would be far more dire than a cursory visit could ever be. Lucius was notorious for his brisk deliberation where the understanding of social structures was concerned and, combined with his quick wit and sound knowledge of his son who he had had the chance to study since birth, Draco was sure that any extended stay in his presence would result in much squeezing of information from him in the only way Lucius knew how. Brutally. On second thought, he did not feel like making any sort of appearance.

Draco twisted his head and stared up blankly at the sky through the spattering of cloud. He continued to let his mind wonder, although he resolutely ignored all connections to Harry, choosing to leave that chain of thought for a later time.

* * *

Harry cursed, dropping to his knees and scooping up the leather bound book again. He meticulously ignored the feeling of Remus Lupin's thoughtful eyes on his back and scurried behind a tall bookcase that would serve to hide him effectively from view. Remus was a gentle soul who always acted on his best instincts but sometimes, just sometimes, there were times when Harry wished he wasn't so caring as to attempt to correct every little kink in his employees lived. This was one of those times.

Harry breathed a sigh and slipped the book back onto the correct shelf, completing the set of grand encyclopaedias that must have cost more than he ate in a month. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate all that the man had done for him, really he did. If it hadn't been for Remus he would have had to go home earlier although really he had his dad to thank for that. It was pure coincidence - although Hermione always referred to it as fate - that Harry had volunteered at the library and happened upon one of his late father's oldest friends. Remus recognised him immediately of course and had hired him on the spot. Harry refused to divulge information about his home life, however, a fact that had annoyed and perplexed his employer to no end for the first year or so of his employment before he recognised it as a defence mechanism and let it go. Having said this, Harry still received the 'you know you can talk to me about anything, right?' talk at least once a month.

Right now, Harry was dreading the impending break that was looming with the tick of the minute hand around the giant clock above the reception desk because, with said respite, would come the interrogation. Harry was aware that his appearance was…less than professional upon his arrival to work but there was nothing he could do about it. The pressure of his lifestyle was weighing down on his shoulders more than ever. He was spending an unhealthy amount of time staring at his gaunt face in mirrors, checking that no visible signs of Vernon's anger were showing through and he dreaded the nights when he would be vulnerable and defenceless against his relative's scorn. On top of this, his body was starting to protest at the strain of dancing so rigorously with his continuous injuries, lack of sleep and minimalist rations of food. Then there was the newest stressful situation concerning his attraction to his newest acquaintance, the rich aristocrat from whose friendship could come nothing but disaster and rubble and he didn't even want to think about the consequence of taking their tentative…comradeship - ? - to another level should that be the mutual wish. Suffice to say it could not and would not end well were it to continue. And then there was the extra pressure of helping his friends to prepare the best piece they could. He would be happy with nothing less than perfect. Having to work wasn't helping the matter either and the imminent talks with Remus, which were unfortunately becoming increasingly more frequent, were always making his heart plummet with guilt.

Harry peeked out, in what he hoped was a suitably subtle way, from behind his hiding place only to shimmy back when he caught Remus' eye. That was another thing about Remus. He had an unnerving way of knowing, just _knowing_, whenever someone was in trouble or was looking at him or…anything really. He would look at you and you could tell by that certain gleam in his eyes that he was thinking exactly what you were thinking.

Harry grabbed another pile of books from a nearby table, barely managing to balance them in his weary arms, and shuffled off towards another set of shelves deeper in the library - and further from Remus' sharp gaze which he could still feel stabbing him in the back.

His fingers were slippery with sweat as he slotted the books back in their rightful places. The reason? His mind had returned to the blond boy that had plagued his thoughts all day. When he had seen him standing there earlier that day, his entire body had started to buzz. Fire flared up inside him and he had felt the intense need to dance, to show that he wasn't worthless, almost to _show off_, much like a peacock flashing its sparkling feathers to attract a mate.

But then his mind had snagged on the danger any approach could entail. His memories of the night before, of his uncle shrilling obscenities about his father while he clobbered down on his cheek, of his uncle hissing poisonous insults about his mother while he lashed across his back with his snakelike belt and of his uncle spitting abuse about his gay Godfather, who had recently been interviewed on the news due to the publication of his new book and who probably didn't even know of his existence - or at least that was what he reassured himself on those cold nights when he was cramped and shivering because it was an option that hurt far less than to believe that he had been abandoned by him, while he swung him into his little cupboard and smashed the door shut behind him so hard Harry had wondered at the time if it would ever open again.

It was these thoughts, flashing across the forefront of his mind, that did not permit Harry to allow even the smallest of smiles onto his face as he passed the other boy. It was these thoughts that made him glare bluntly ahead, forcefully not worrying his lip lest he give his pretence away to the aristocrat. It was these thoughts that made him wholeheartedly stride passed him as if he didn't exist even though everything in his heart was screaming at him for being so idiotic. Any friendship between them was wrong, forbidden even, and dangerous, doomed only to end in tragedy. Yet, being a rational being, he did wonder as to why, if it was so wrong, his heart had shattered at his rejection and why it felt so goddamn _right._

Yes, he would have liked to have had that consistent, resilient friendship where they finished each other's sentences and didn't need to say anything even in dark streets at night because they could tell by the way the other was standing what they were thinking. And yes, he would have liked that slow burning romance that he could easily envision them having, the nervous first advance, the tentative touches and the quick kisses. He would have liked the volcanic passion that would have built with nurturing and time to explode between them in one night of absolute, delicious ecstasy. And _yes, _God he would have liked to have been seen as actually desirable despite, or possibly because of, all of his imperfections; his short stature and marred body and quick anger and heated stubbornness.

But everything he knew, everything his uncle hated and everything in the prejudiced world around him said no. And he was just going to have to live with that.

"Harry? Your break began five minutes ago. Why aren't you out back with Tonks having a coffee?"

Harry swivelled around, bumping the last book on a stray shelf and only just managing to snag it with his nervous, damp fingertips in time, and stared at Remus' worn figure that was blocking most of the light from the main library, he must have been deeper in than he thought.

"Sorry, just lost track of time I guess. I'll go now then." Harry was grateful that Remus let him slip passed without trying to strike up one of his…conversations. He wound his way through the maze that Remus called organised chaos until he reached the reception area, before signing himself out and ambling through the staffroom door, grateful that it was unusually quiet for a weekday afternoon.

Tonks was resting on the battered sofa, her eyes shut and hands cradling a precariously balanced plastic cup of some fresh-smelling, steaming liquid. Harry smiled fondly at her reclined figure as he shuffled towards the kitchen area, attempting to smother his steps in the faded carpet so as not to wake her.

"You're late." Harry grinned over his shoulder although he knew she wouldn't have opened her eyes but she had always been gifted when it came to interpreting silent, hidden expressions.

"Got caught up." He murmured as he snaked his hand into the fridge and grabbed the milk whilst flicking the switch on the kettle simultaneously with his other hand.

"In your own thoughts you mean." She stated, and he could practically _hear _her eyebrow raising almost to her violent violet hairline. He was glad to see she'd dyed it again in the short time he'd not interacted with her, it was just a small piece of evidence that the world did continue on matter how crap life was.

"You could say that. Purple?" Harry asked, yanking the kettle from its settled place, wary that it was infamously legendary for being temperamental in its old age.

"My mother thinks it's the worst fashion turn since the fur coat," Tonks sniggered. It was well-known among all the employees at the public library that Tonks and her mother had a rather unstable relationship. They were close, true, but strangely enough, Tonks seemed to find great satisfaction in irritating the woman, a sort of sport if you will and Harry liked to liken it to a mouse poking a sleeping lion to see how long it could go before the beast woke groggily to express its anger, at which point an entirely new sport would commence. It was this part, the chase, that Tonks enjoyed as well, the part where her mother banished her from the house when she could take no more and she could stay out all night, crashing at people's houses who she barley knew and behaving as she wished before he mother chased her up and grounded her despite the fact that she was almost twenty-two years old. And then Tonks would fetch her hidden stick and the entire cycle would begin again.

Harry smiled into his coffee indulgently, absentmindedly noting that Draco had been wearing a tie with the crest at the tip marked in exactly the same colour purple. In truth, he didn't even know he was doing it.

Tonks suddenly leapt to her feet - with a nimble grace that would have rivalled Draco's - and slammed her cup down on the countertop, leaning on it and peering at him from beneath her sweeping fringe - although Draco did it better, leaning on a counter that is.

"So, kiddo, what's up?" She said and, whilst berating himself for letting his thoughts run away with him, Harry created a mundane and entirely fictional tale of normalcy and boredom.

An undefined number of hours later found Harry on the doorstep of number four Privet drive, wrapped in a thin blanket and wishing he'd been home before curfew. This had happened many time before but never in the colder seasons when he was usually taking extra precautions for such an event not to happen.

With an aggravated growl that swiftly progressed off into a spasm of chattering teeth, Harry launched himself to his feet and began trudging back down the street towards his haven. There was no need for him to sleep outside in the freezing cold and catch pneumonia when there was a perfectly good place for him to rest.

The sun had set about an hour ago and now the last streaks of red were dying below the horizon, trailing faithfully after their master. The streetlamps flickered haphazardly above Harry, casting his face in an eerie, toxic light. Harry glimpsed his hollowed face in a small puddle of muddied water and sighed dejectedly at the bruises he saw showing on his pale skin. Obviously his aunt was too cheep to buy make-up that actually lasted a decent amount of time but it didn't really matter because Harry doubted he'd be seeing anyone he knew well enough for them to go out of their way to check up on him any time soon.

The dance centre was bathed in a fragile slice of moonlight that radiated from the torn crescent moon that hung disparaged in the starless night sky. Harry kicked a mottled metal can down the street and sneered at some faceless rascals that were spraying permanent paint onto a wall in that direction before turning sharply and tapping the pass code into the security bar attached to the door.

He stole through the small gap and, pulling his flimsy blanket closer to his skinny body, began to climb the flight of stairs to safety, sparing a single peek towards the despondent café that was securely locked before his mind honed in on its target and blessed, _blessed __**sleep.

* * *

**Well that's all folks._

_Review review review. _

_Apologies for the horrendously late post but i hope it was worth it._

_Yours_

_Bella  
_


	8. Chapter 8

**Freedom**

**Chapter 8**

The dance studio was pristine at times like these. Most nights when he happened to stumble through the doors his mind was so addled by either the lulling lullaby that rocked him towards the tempting sleep his tired body so craved or the thudding behind his temple and throbbing of his entire body that he did not take the time to see the room as it was, or if he did, his memory swiftly forgot it by morning after dreaming of the sweet haven.

The silver moonlight caressed the polished floor like a lover's fingertips across smooth panes of fresh skin. The beams glittered around the room, bouncing from the mirrors as if the room were one massive crystalline structure refracting and reflecting the light. The cushions were like pearls of treasured jewels, a rainbow of rubies and sapphires, beside the still lake where the rays swathed them luxuriously. Everything was still and silent and the appreciation Harry felt as he moved across the glacial surface of the dance floor was so intense he felt he wanted to meld himself into those sparkling surfaces forever.

It took him seconds, in which his conscious mind was soaking in the beauty of the silvery ripples of light, to realise that a pair of eyes, hidden by the rays of which they were exactly the same glimmering shade, were peering at him from the gem pool on the other side of the room. Moonshine hazed through pale blonde hair of the finest strands and misted around alabaster skin worthy of a king's notice. Lips, which he remembered perfectly to be as smooth as rose petals, were concealed by a viridian emerald, the golden beads glinting amber in the tinted lighting along with the strong jaw he knew to exist. He was reminded of the predatory look a foxes eyes would show, sparkling from the bushes that kept it out of sight while it prepared its attack, coiling sleek muscles beneath its magnifiscent body.

Loping further forward, his skin warming in the humid room where memories of hard work and dripping sweat kept it tepid, Harry inspected the staring eyes. A part of him recognised who it was while another wondered whether this person had perfected the art of sleeping with ones eyes open.

"Malfoy?" he murmured into the dark silence that had fallen heavily, breaking the contented easiness of the room that had been present seconds ago when he had entered. It was the flash of ashen hair that had given away the identity of the other boy, for although slightly more ruffled than usual, the pallor could not be mistaken for anyone else, especially out of those privileged with the information of the entry codes to the building.

"What might you be doing here at such a late hour then, Potter?" he answered, stirring from his comfortable, reclined position like a dragon awakening from one hundred years of undisturbed, peaceful rest. Harry shrugged, rolling his fingers across the palms of his hands in an attempt to heat the extremities. With small, calculated steps he started forwards towards the cushioned area, all traces of tiredness gone from the forefront of his mind.

It was awkward, he found after slumping down onto a sea of ruby puffs of swollen fabric, lounging while a person he barely knew but still found he had some unexplainable attraction to and had cruelly ignored very recently was barely two metres away, glaring black death against his scull. He distracted himself by glaring whole-heartedly out the window and into the dark, cold night. The moon was reassuringly bright, blinking into his eyes like the winking lights of a grand ship come to rescue him from a ship wreck.

"Are you going to answer me?" Malfoy voiced from his corner, steadily sitting up, not a hair out of place. Harry couldn't help the flicker of his eyes over to the erected form, but upon realising his distraction, he snapped his gaze back out the window. Only one streetlight was working, glowing an eerie amber out onto the pavement, and in the small radius that it shed light on, only litter, the crumpled crisp packets and cigarette ends, could be seen.

"I'll take that as a no." Again, Harry adamantly ignored him, instead staring out at the world as the night-time haze of mist set in and the dew that people would rise to began to cling to the grass. He repetitively told himself that he had no interest in the other man but instead of obeying his wishes, his mind forged a forced link with his mouth and blurted out the first thing it could.

"Hermione told me you dance ballroom." Harry hated how he seemed to always lose control of himself, a fact that had been solidified even thought he had only met him twice.

"Yes, and?"

Without realising he was doing so, Harry shifted around, pulling his attention from the desolate streets and turning his shadowed eyes to the man reclined across from him. His grey irises glowed an inhuman silver at him in the moonlight, like moon-dust settling on a pool of pure, cerulean water on a still winter's night while the alabaster snow remained frozen in time on the shores.

"Well, I…" Harry trailed off, realising that he had not actually planned a path for this conversation to take. It was more that he couldn't stand the asphyxiating silence that smothered the room. He shivered slightly under the burdensome weight of those shining eyes, his fortitude building further; he would not let this encounter wither, nor would he let the conversation, if that was what one could call it, wilt. "Isn't it boring?"

It was as if the icy plains of pale flesh suddenly had the ability to metamorphose to milky shades of marble and granite. His grey eyes darkened, focusing on Harry with an unwavering quality that sent rushes of adrenalin flooding through Harry's veins. He felt like a child again for a moment, having been caught at school doing something innately wrong and still having fun despite the fact. He felt a crimson blush flush over his cold cheeks and welcomed the slight warmth, even if t was the creation of his own embarrassment.

"No, Mr. Potter. For your information," Malfoy growled frigidly at him, his perfectly white teeth like jagged, icicles gnashing at him with each aristocratically articulated syllable, "ballroom dancing is an art, one which I thoroughly enjoy I might add. I suppose, though, that one such as yourself, who devotes a large amount of their time to _tumbling_ to the floor and severely reducing their life-expectancy, cannot begin to comprehend the dedication, grace and resolve it takes to learn even the basics to the skill."

Harry watched him, from the corner of his eye, resolutely looking out of the steaming window and absolutely refusing to allow himself a glance at the furious 'peer of the realm', ranting and billowing proverbial steam. If he was honest with himself, Harry doubted that Malfoy could 'thoroughly enjoy' anything, especially when his current expression portrayed a vision of the sourest lemon in history lingering in his mouth with a smidge of pepper and a splash of vinegar.

"But it looks so easy. Not a challenge at all."

"You've never tried it have you," Malfoy stated, his glare intensifying. Harry felt the flush gracing his cheeks intensify. No, he hadn't tried it, but ballroom dancing - even in his mind he couldn't help but snigger unattractively - had never been something that appealed to him. Jazz, sure he had tried that. Tap, yes, he found it fun. He had been known to add the occasional Cuban grind in even. There was also ballet, although when questioned he would never admit to it. But _ballroom? _No, he had never imagined himself trying it let alone succeeding. The repetitive nature scared him slightly, blocking the imagination and cutting off the infinite possibilities that would have flowed naturally to him with its strict structure. "Then you have no right to judge. Get up."

"What?" Harry stared up at Malfoy dumbly, hair tickling the back of his neck, as he shot to his feet while managing not to trip over on the soft cushions, shift a single, shining hair out of place or move a muscle without grace.

"Up!" The command struck home to Harry and he found himself rising without expressly and consciously ordering his muscles to move. Malfoy flitted like some sort of bird preparing for a mating ritual to the centre of the smooth dance floor, his flaxen hair spun with moon beams and the tips of his toes barely touching the polished wood.

"Come here!" Harry was expecting the imperative and the way he reacted, following his companion over to the middle of the room and staring adamantly upon his reflection in the mirror. He despised the image that he saw. He, the dirty, stereotypical orphan with his smudged face, shaggy hair and tattered rags, looked absolutely wretched stood, _slouched,_ beside Malfoy, ever the aristocratic man with his faultless posture and emotionless features but nevertheless burning eyes.

"Now dance with me," Malfoy murmured into Harry's ear, taking advantage of his turned head whilst wrapping his long fingers around both of his wrists and drawing his hands up to shoulder height.

"I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing."

"That's because I haven't told you yet. Now stop looking pathetically bewildered and do as I tell you," Malfoy scolded, slithering his left hand up to clasp firmly yet softly around Harry's right palm. "Curl your fingers…don't grip, clasp," Malfoy hissed, breathing through his teeth when Harry's fingers released his hand from their death grip slightly. "And the other on my shoulder, yes, just resting, no weight involved. I place my right hand here," Malfoy whispered, stepping forward slightly and pressing the lengths of their bodies together while placing his hand delicately on his new partner's hip. "Now, when I…"

"Hang on a second," Harry growled, "Why have I got to be the fucking girl?"

"Because, moron, you have no idea what you're doing. Now, shut up and let me lead you,' Malfoy seethed back, emphasising his point with a sharp pressure on his spine that had Harry jumping forward into his chest. "Now, I'm going to step forward with my left foot very slowly and I want you to step back with your right."

* * *

Draco decided quickly that he was not going to inform Potter of his inability to perform a single step in a straight line, nor that he was having to overcompensate just to teach him the next step. When Potter stepped back, his foot so far from his miniscule body Draco thought it should have slipped on the polished floor, Draco almost sneered aloud, half wishing he had as punishment for ignoring what should not be ignored, meaning himself.

But it was with an irritating clarity that he acknowledged Potter's innate talents. No, he was not the most graceful of creatures naturally, but with a short shock of training, Draco could see that the potential lingering there could be tapped into and caused to flourish and leap and bound. This boy had the hidden ability to spread an unlimited amount of joy, an unending fountain of inspiration, into the wide world, if only he had someone to nurture and sculpt him.

Draco could not peel his eyes from the boy's shining presence, despite the niggling resentment that lingered in his mind towards him, as he stared down at his feet abashedly, uncomfortable with their close proximity and far too caught up in the concentration it took him to remember the simple side-to-side and back-and-forth steps combined as he had been taught mere moments before. His hirsute features were crinkled, his nose wrinkled and his brow strained. Draco's nose was practically thrust into the heart of his locks and he recognised, but not without a vague appreciation he would come to scold himself for later, the hints of intoxicating coconut that swept down his airway and into his lungs, before commencing a chain reaction that ended with his heart beating irrationally quickly and his blood pounding through his body abnormally fast.

It took a ridiculously short amount of time for Potter to come to terms with the steps Draco had shown him for a simple waltz, thereby allowing Draco to begin berating him for his faults.

"You need stand up straight, we can't float if you're insistent on virtually lying on the floor."

"Don't step so far, it's meant to be a graceful, gentle dance, which it can't be if you're leaping around like an injured gazelle."

"_Glliiideeee _and up. Your toes, Potter, your _toes!_…No! Not _my_ toes, fuck that hurt! Idiot!"

"No, Potter, stop trying to lead and my shoulder is connected you know. It's my job to lead, you're there to make us look like angels floating on heaven's clouds."

"What did I say about gripping? It's clasping."

Draco was aware that the immediacy between them was losing distance, in fact, if anything, he was encouraging it, rolling words over his tongue practically erotically as he spoke his teasing, constructive insults. He could see the way Potter's eyes had begun to burn as enjoyment shimmered in blood, lighting every cell in his body and he began to become accustomed to the pattern of things, even barbing back at Draco when he felt certain steps coming as easily as any enthused, fictional movement he might ordinarily execute on the dance floor.

Draco was not sure how much time had passed before he began to feel the fatigue dragging at his limbs and labouring his breath. By this time, they were positively sweeping around the room. When he had first directed Potter into a surging circle, there had been some faltering and muttered, vile cursing that Draco had curled his lip at but with the firm hand resting on his waist to guide him, Potter quickly learned to hold his own and, eventually, even his head rose from its fixed position staring down at his feet. And Draco could see it, in his eyes, the childlike, make-believe reality lingering there; a world filled with green, peaceful fields and blazing sunshine and love and companionship and no will to harm any single living being. He could see it, all there, displayed in the sincere glistening of his eyes, which, now that he thought about it, reminded him of the swaying grass of the serene meadow on a humid summer's day. But there was something else there as well. There was the simple joy of sharing this sacred time, doing something close to his heart.

At this realisation, Draco forgot about Lucius and the overbearing grudges and punishments that would follow his absence the next morning. He forgot about his stringent upbringing and the fears that he had relentlessly yanked to the deepest, darkest corners of his mind concerning his impending marriage to who knew which suitor his mother picked for him and the hellish, imprisonment he would come to know as life following the event. Draco merely saw himself as one man, dancing away in the middle of the moonlit night, with another man whom had already begun to caress the delicate muscle of his heart with tender, agile fingers…not that he would ever let Potter know that, of course.

* * *

A bit shorter than usually and i apologise for the wait, i really do, damned writers block, as you can probably tell i got stuck on Draco's 'half'.

Reviews welcome, keep them coming.

Yours

Bella


	9. Chapter 9

**_A/N_:** _I can't believe it's almost been two years since i've posted on this story. Where does the time go? But to be honest i told myself when i first started publishing fanfiction that if i wasn't happy with something i wouldn't post it because it isn't worthy. I can only apologise and say i have had major writers block and had no idea where i wanted to go with this. The original summary no longer seems to fit now but hopefully it'll bloom into a rose tinted love story soon. _

_Reviews are appreciated. Thanks for reading._

* * *

**Chapter 9**

It was raining outside, as often it is when dramatic events take place. Dim shadows flickered to and fro in the dark room, nightmares waiting to come alive in susceptible dreams. But these dark monsters seemed to be having no effect on the angel beside Harry. His eyelids fluttered, the ocean blue eyes rolling restlessly behind and pale ashen, almost ivory, lashes brushing delicately against the soft skin of his cheek. Porcelain velvet stretched just so over high cheekbones, dipping minutely into the valleys below so they were not hollowed like Harry's by poverty but rather defined by sharp angles and athleticism. Rosy lips. Straight, pert nose. Angular, strong jaw and the smooth rise of his Adam's apple, bobbing irregularly and visible only because his head was thrown back to reach a pillow, halo of golden hair on the silky material. The smooth column of his throat was exposed, shamelessly, erotically arcing and practically quivering with the strain.

Two buttons of his crisp white shirt were open, skewed to expose that tiny bit more flawless skin, although it made little difference as the item was sweat soaked and, as a result, translucent, his nipples peeking at the cooling perspiration surrounding them.

Harry dragged his eyes away, snapping his jaw rigidly shut. He had convinced himself that if he looked hard enough, inspected thoroughly enough, every pore, he would find as imperfection. However, this turned out to be an excuse to allow himself to stare slack jawed at a close range for almost an hour because no such impurity was to be found. Draco Malfoy was completely flawless, the result of generations of precisely chosen breeding and primarily magnificent genetics.

Harry managed to catch himself before he tumbled head first into a brooding pit and instead channelled his mind to more proactive habits, mainly scurrying out of the door and away from temptation.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was tempted, standing solitary in this marble hall as he was, to bite his lip, a nervous habit he had supposedly broken during childhood. His hand rested on the door handle of the great oak portal before him, thumb running delicately and indecisively over the dark grains of expensive wood.

His parents were, theoretically, on the other side of this door and one thing Draco was absolutely positive of was that they would be rather displeased with his disappearance concerning the previous night. Of course, like the prosperous peacekeeper he was, he had decided to be absent when Harry woke up that morning. Awkward conversations before his inevitable argument with his father were not his idea of a particularly good morning.

The curtains were drawn when he slipped into the room through a small crack between the double doors. The chandelier was flaming above the broad dining table, a dark wood that glowed malevolently under the intense light. His mother sat, pristine and perfect despite the early hour, at the far end of the table, perched on the straight backed dining chair, her skirts flowing over the tasteful, floral pattern of the cushioned seat.

"Your father is displeased, Draco," she murmured, somehow making her whisper resound around the large room. Her dainty fingers picked at the mixed berries on her plate, freshly plucked and still attached to their various stalks. She barely moved as she brought a single raspberry to her lips and slid it between the painted skin.

"Father is often displeased," Draco replied, finally deciding to stop his dithering at the fringes of the room if only for the sake of propriety and choosing to strategically position himself across from her where he would not be forced to look his father in the eye upon his arrival.

"_I _am displeased, Draco," Narcissa hissed, her eyes slicing up and into his like frozen steel piercing melting butter. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, aware that his mind had forgotten in the tense moment of his arrival that his mother could be just as, if not more, cruel than his father, although she often went about her business in a more cunning, subtle way.

His mother's fingers whipped up to silence any protest he may have been about to make, although in reality he felt suitably chastised as if he were a little boy once more, before casually transforming the gesture into a gentle caress that slipped a strand of her ashen hair behind her ear, miraculously managing not to catch her swirling, golden earrings at the same time.

Draco settled for snatching the bowl of fresh fruit that lay between them childishly. He picked at them one by one, sucking nervously on the inside of his cheek. His father was liable to show his anger in a much more potent way that one of his mother's strong silences. He could imagine Lucius' scowl, the way his hands would curl into fists and back to palms, as if he were unsure as to whether he would strike with a punch or a slap.

"You have forced our hand, Draco. For too many years we have put up with your childish antics." Narcissa Malfoy paused significantly, gesturing harshly to a servant hovering nervously at the drinks table. He scuttled forward, his beret wobbling precariously – another victim of his mother's French obsession – refill her glass, an artist thing of sweeps and curves, with orange juice. Draco would bet his right foot it had been squeezed by him personally less than five minutes ago. His mother tested it before flicking him away irritably; a movement that immediately put Draco on full alert. She was usually sterilised about showing her emotion at these times. Or at most times now he thought about it.

"Lucius and I have come to a decision. You will be married within the year." Her glass tapped the table as she replaced it gently, dangerously. Draco felt his heart expanding in his chest and sweat breaking out on his back. She was completely, terrifyingly serious. Simply for something to occupy his hands other than clenching the table until they were white, Draco slipped a slice of sweet-smelling apple into his mouth, vaguely admiring the deep red colour. It stopped him immediately, emotionally, screaming back at her as well as an added bonus. He needed, now more than ever, to prove to her he could handle these types of situations as a mature adult; that he was no longer a child who depended on temper tantrums and favouritism.

"And if I refuse anyone you deem appropriate?" Draco asked with a cocked eyebrow once he had chewed the fruit slice fifteen times, breathing sufficiently deeply to calm him.

"Oh, no, Draco. You misunderstand me." She flitted her hand over her plate before carefully before placing it back in her lap and looking directly up into his face. Draco received the distinct impression of being an unsuspecting antelope prancing before a pack of hunting lionesses. "You have free choice. We will not parade worthy girls before you and allow you to embarrass us any longer, turning your nose up."

"Still, if I refuse?" Draco murmured, challenging, as he leaned forward towards her.

Narcissa smiled and Draco felt a shiver of dread run unpleasantly up his spine in response. "You have a year, my dear, before your father evokes the right to an arranged, _forced _marriage. We have been far too lenient with you and Astoria Greengrass will make a suitable enough wife."

His mother stood, ignoring the descent of his scowl, and brushed down her pristine skirts. "You will begin courting her in six months under no false pretences. I have assured her father she would benefit from learning of the situation in full. Good day, Draconis." She bowed her head to head to him in a way she knew was flattering in the dim light. "My gardens are calling for me." She turned her back on him fully, a rude dismissal, and glided towards the door where her bereted servant already waited to open it for her.

Hysterical laughter threatened Draco now that he found himself alone. Never in his life had he seen Narcissa Malfoy touch a flower except to smell it.

* * *

The last week had been gruelling. Hermione and Ron were becoming more and more of a burden, and although he felt guilty for thinking it that didn't mean it was any less true. Ron's limbs were too ridiculously gangly, resulting in any entwining move Harry instructed them on concluded with the two of them in a heap on the floor, pained and frustrated. Meanwhile, Hermione's attempts at synchronised rhythm were verging on droll and pathetic, not that Harry, the ever loyal friend, would ever tell her in such a crass way.

Initially, staying behind for the full hour to practice his own personal form had been a luxury until he was invited, without fail, to observe the ballroom meetings. At first he had felt awkward, declining with many stuttered apologies. But unfortunately for him Pansy Parkinson turned out to be a force not to be tampered with and he found himself, one day, blocked from the door and bodily plunged into the pillows by minions as she stood by and watched, stretching her forearms across her body innocently.

He wasn't sure where to look that first time. Pansy kept flicking her gaze at him unnervingly, so much so that he felt guilty for…something whenever they made eye contact. Although what he had to be guilty about he had no idea. The other pairs, whirling around each other rhythmically, were graceful and soothing to watch, sometimes so much so that he really did feel at fault when his eyes grew heavy. They were wonderful dancers but just not interesting enough to hold his attention for an extended length of time.

Outside there was the cold and the rain and the cloudy night sky. Inside were the blaring lights and the confusing, distorted mirror images and the melodious music. All very well but again nothing that could sustain his curiosity.

Which left Draco. In his shining black shoes. And his shirt that clung to his torso with the speed if his spins. And his eyes, like crystal sliding everywhere and yet sticking to Pansy all at once. Harry could tell he was completely aware of absolutely everything happening around him. The way he flung his partner carelessly around the room, avoiding everyone, but somehow managed to be precise and careful at the same time.

He was aware he was staring. He knew he shouldn't. Especially when he caught his eye in the mirror while Draco was jigging some complex sideways steps. Harry quickly ripped his gaze away. He spent some precious minutes picking at a stray, sunlight gold thread on a cushion by his knee before he glanced back to find his eyes connecting instantly once more with ice blue glaciers.

Harry told himself that moment, that fresh, fragile connection, meant absolutely nothing and contented himself with lingering for five more minutes before dashing for the door when the music slipped into its next piece, murmuring to Parkinson about some forgotten engagement, which really meant his enforced curfew was fast approaching and two nights slept in the studio was not a good habit to fall into.

It was another week, in which he succumbed to his fate and finally admitted to himself he had grown to like these little nights and by Friday there was no need for an order to latch onto him arm and haul him back in during his escape because when they arrived, jolly laughs and swinging bags following them, he was already waiting for them already sweat soaked and exhausted on the sea of cushions with a cold bottle of water.

In that same week, Hermione had taken up her battle to convince him he needn't put up with his relatives any longer…again. It was a cause she took upon her conscience every few months, obviously never succeeding. And with Ron currently out of the country visiting his brother in Romania with the rest of his family it was the perfect opportunity for her to badger him without any interference from the third member of their close knit group who was, admittedly, a bit of a flaming fire wall of protection for Harry against her persistent nature.

That was how, shortly after building his courage and strength by watching Draco flare to life with high tempo strings and a thrust of his nose into the air with rebellious intent, Harry found himself shifting restlessly on the bare pavement outside a spotless house with an even more spotless lawn labelled clearly in grotesque green paint – which he had painted thank you very much – and waiting for an opportune moment, which on inspection probably didn't exist.

He wasn't sure how Hermione had managed to sand down his endless reserves of stubbornness this time. Perhaps it was the threat to march in there herself to pack his few belongings. He couldn't allow her to see with her own two eyes the way he had lived all his life.

She had offered to share her own bedroom with him in her family's little flat that was barely big enough for them until Ron returned, at which point she would quite happily force him to accept the offer the Weasley's had extended to him many a time of a warm bed in Ron's room.

His plan was to steal through the back door, practically skate through the hall and to his bag before getting the hell out of there before anyone had the time to get off the sofa, let alone catch him. He estimated Dudley would already be in his room doing all manner of unsavoury things, while his aunt and uncle would be watch the latest reality show to hit the screen, tittering and gaffawing at all the horrendous jokes.

It started perfectly, the side gate didn't even screech like normal when he slipped through as if luck was on his side. In fact, the back door remained eerily quiet as well and the pitch black had his nerves flaring up on alert. He felt his heart pumping uncontrollably in his chest and his breathing, though forcefully quiet, was erratic.

He skirted around the kitchen table, wary of the chair legs that could betray him. He had grabbed his belonging the night before and stowed them in his dependable cupboard the night before in his one and only bag. They fit in the satchel with room to spare.

He could see the little brass knob glinting in the reflection of the television's blare. He crept towards it and cracked it open, praying for silence. All was well and he slithered the bag through the small gap.

That was where it went wrong.

He should have known he just wasn't that lucky. He was just swinging the back over his shoulder when there was a voice from the lounge. "Tea, Pentunia?"

Harry was frozen. In his half crouch position he could see his uncle standing. His blood shuddered and stilled in his veins. His vision blurred and his breathing reached hyperventilation.

His uncle didn't see him until he was nearly standing up on him. Then there was a second of pure silence as if that hallway was all that existed.

A shadow curled around his uncle's face, more black than the natural shadows of the dim room. His eyes darkened and his lips twisted into a ghastly snarl, pulling at his moustache and revealing yellowing teeth. Like a ravenous monster. Inhuman and petrifying. More beast than man.

"BOY!"

* * *

_Thanks again for reading._

_Reviews would be lovely_

_Bella_

_P.s. Abuse for the amount of time it took me to publish this are understood but not tolerated.  
_


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